Bound to You
by Metallic Shadows
Summary: AU - Sherlock is a famous musician in need of an assistant. He is arrogant, rude and is interested in nothing but his work. Will John be able to change that? Rated M for language and later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT

**ROCK STAR HOLMES SEEKS TREATMENT IN LONDON CLINIC**

17th February 2011

Written by Molly Hooper.

After being hospitalised back in January, it comes as no surprise that the up and coming pop star, Sherlock Holmes, has been forced to check in to London's top rehabilitation centre for treatment to battle his alcohol and drug addiction. The singer best known for his outlandish behaviour and even more bizarre performances was seen yesterday heading into St Bartholomew's rehabilitation clinic.

The male sex symbol's career took a turn for the worse when his contract with _Janus Industries _was terminated, after he refused to meet the company's demands concerning his health. The 26 year old has been struggling to get back on top since. Sales in his music have reached an all-time low after last year's success of selling over 4.5 million copies of his latest album, _Ancient Shadow. _

It is suspected the singer is to spend the next three months seeking treatment here.

18nd July 2012, not a particularly interesting day for John Watson. He was sat on his bed, looking absently up at the ceiling wondering how his life had come to this. He lived in a shared flat, with two musicians. Bad ones at that. They said they were going to make it to the top. If the nation wanted to hear cats being straggled, then yes, they were probably right. But for now, he was stuck with them. They were lousy with money, the rent was always late. If John couldn't find a job soon the electricity and water was going to be shut off. Hardly the least of his problems considering the landlord was up his arse about the rent. Come the end of the month he was probably going to get kicked out anyway.

John sighed, punching his pillow into shape before lying back down on it. Only a year ago he had graduated as a doctor, a doctor for God sake. He was struggling to find work. At this rate he would be left with one option: Armed Forces. It's what his dad had done. Fought for his country with pride and honour. It's not that John didn't want to join the army. Honestly, he'd been considering it for a long time. He'd just always envisioned doing a few years of hospital work first, work his way up to the intensive career the army would provide.

Running a hand through his hair, he looked over at his alarm clock: 9:30am. He should probably get up and look for a job. He groaned, the thought of doing something productive didn't seem all that appealing. He just wanted to lie in bed and wish his problems away. As if the universe had nothing better to do than torment John, his phone rang. He growled in annoyance when he saw his sister's name flash across the screen in big infuriating letters.

As soon as his thumb tapped the screen a channel of noise erupted from the receiving end, causing the speakers of the phone to crackle slightly at the volume.

"Alright, short arse. 'ow you doing?" The bright and bubbly tone of voice was not welcoming to John.

"Harry," John replied, his voice grave and uninterested. He was not in the mood for one of her chats. They usually consisted of undermining him because she worked as an executive for some fancy company that he had no interest to remember the name of. They also reminded him that he was alone, pathetic and desperate for work. Whilst she was living life in the luxury lane.

"By all means sound happy to hear from me you ungrateful git. I think I've found you a job."

John bolted up off the mattress "Really?" he asked, trying to keep the intrigued tone out of his voice. It wouldn't be good if his sister knew he was _that_ desperate. He'd never hear the end of it.

"Yeah. Some singer," she replied, he could hear her looking through papers. "Sherlock Holmes. He signed on with our company a few months back. He's looking for a personal assistant. One that will last more than a few days, apparently he's a right bugger to work with. He's looking for someone that'll work for him whilst he does his latest tour around Britain."

Any brief hopes John had for this being an actual job were immediately slashed. He flopped back down on the bed with a huff. "Harry, I'm a doctor not a baby-sitter," he frowned.

"You've clearly never heard of Sherlock then. The man's a complete maniac. He'll need a doctor just to keep him alive," she chuckled down the phone.

John rolled his eyes, "Let me guess, junkie?"

"Not anymore and his brother wants it to stay that way too. Although his brother is the head of the company, it's hard to tell if he actually cares or just wants what's best for the business. The blokes a complete upper-class prick, y'know the type," she rambled.

"So keep the ponce sober and everything will be alright? Sounds thrilling," he said dryly.

"Not just keeping him sober. Keeping him to schedules too. That and patching him up every night."

John frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Jesus, have you been living under a rock? Sherlock Holmes is known for his elaborate performances. We're talking fire, explosives…the whole shebang," she explained.

John sat up again, confused and curious. "So, you're not kidding when you say he needs a doctor."

"Afraid not, Johnny. So you'll actually get to practise medicine. It's perfect. Money isn't bad either"

This caused John to freeze momentarily. Harry never brought up the issue of money. She knew he was having trouble but she'd never stoop as low as to prod him with that fact. She respected his pride, something he was grateful for. So why would she…

"You already said I'd do it, didn't you?" he said through gritted teeth.

"I might have done," she said. He can almost hear her grin. "Sorry, gotta go. Talk to you later."

Before John could protest, Harry had hung-up. Leaving John bewildered and agitated. He threw his phone to the bed with great force, feeling the need to lash out on something. He sat on the edge of his bed and ran his hands through his hair trying to deal with this situation he'd been roped into.

His phone beeped again, John scrambled through his duvet trying to find where he'd thrown the blasted thing. He picked it up and scowled at the screen when a text from his sister read:

Monday 23rd, 9:00. The Beaufort Hotel, Knightsbridge. Have fun. Xx

Of course, John thought to himself. The swanky git can't just meet up in a café. That would just be ridiculous. He stood up from his bed and walked into the living-room to find Adam and Matt still up from last night, playing video games. He forced himself not to act like their mother and clean up after them or tell them they were wasting their lives. Instead, he sat on the sofa behind them watching them kick the shit out of each other via a virtual world inhabited by Italian plumbers driving go-karts. He waited until their game was over before asking them.

"Do you guys know anything on Sherlock Holmes?"

This caused both Adam and Matt to let their controllers fall into their laps whilst they slowly turned to look up at John as if he'd just asked them to set themselves on fire and fuck each other. He might have well had, at least then he would have been more interested in the response.

"Uh, yeah." Adam scoffed.

"He's only _the _most awesome musician of all time." Matt pitched in, Adam nodding in agreement.

"Oh. Right," John said slowly. "So, do you have any of his stuff? That I could listen to?"

This caused both Adam and Matt to laugh hysterically. They thought it was hilarious that John would think that they didn't have any of Sherlock's work. Adam left the room and came back a moment later with a stack of CDs, DVDs and magazine articles. John blinked at the volume of material.

"Thanks," he smiled weakly, taking the pile of what might has well of been horseshit to his room.

He had five days to learn all that he could about Sherlock Holmes. Five days he'd rather spent in hell. He could already guess what the man would be like; stuck up, arrogant, complete lady's man, doesn't give a damn about anyone but himself. He placed the stack of CDs and DVDs next to his laptop and sat on his bed, fanning out the magazines to get a better look. As suspected, John's guess wasn't far off. Each cover had Sherlock dressed in eccentric fashion, looking absolutely gorgeous and cradling a guitar, woman or the rare rabbit. Later on the evening Matt would explain how Sherlock had a love for animals and even shipped a panda from Japan to Edinburgh zoo to help the breeding programme. John found the more he found out about this man, the more he wanted to punch him. He sounded completely off the chain, tried too hard to be loved by all. To put it simply: a twat.

John ignored the CDs and DVDs of his previous concerts, he'd figured he'd have to listen to his music throughout the tour, so there was no need to torture himself now. He spent the next five days ignoring all responsibilities and joined Adam and Matt in their quest to rescue the princess online.

Monday arrived, all too soon for his liking. He blinked at his clock as he stretched out the kinks in his neck. 8:30am. Shit. He had to be across town in half an hour. He scrambled for his clothes, putting on his least scruffy jeans and a pale blue shirt. He slipped on his shoes, shoved his phone in his pocket and grabbed for his jacket as he ran out the door.

Shit. Harry was going to murder him. Although he didn't want the job himself, Harry had put herself out there to get him a job. He couldn't let her down or make her look bad. Plus, he needed the money. Quite desperately in fact. He was half way across town, running through the streets of London when a black car with tinted windows knocked him over as he sprinted past one of the roads. After the car grazed his side, John rolled across the floor, groaning as struggled to sit up.

A taller man dressed in a neatly tailored Giorgio Armani suit stepped out of the back of the car. Contrasting with his neat attire, his messy curly hair stuck in every direction. It shouldn't have looked good but it seemed to work. His eyes were hidden behind an expensive pair of D&G sunglasses. It wasn't exactly a sunny day either, pretentious sod. It wasn't until the man stood close did John recognise him from one of the magazine covers Adam had lent him earlier in the week.

"Mr Holmes?" he addressed, sticking to manners. He gathered that was the only thing these people tolerated when being spoken to. Even then they'd treat you like shit on your shoe.

"Yes and no, no autographs. Let's call it £500 and avoid the court case and press." Sherlock replied, barely looking away from his phone to see if the other man was alright.

Charming, John thought. He could see why people didn't want to work with him. "No, you misunderstand." He began, getting to his feet as Sherlock clearly wasn't going to help him. "My name is John. I'm your new assistant." He gave a smile and held out his hand for the other to take.

"Oh," Sherlock replied, his tone disinterested and bored shitless. He gave a moment to look over at the other man, ignoring his extended hand. "Good." And with that Sherlock got back into his car and drove off leaving John completely perplexed. What the hell was all that about? He thought. He could have at least given him a lift. They were going to same bloody place after all. After a moment John's mobile beeped.

It is unprofessional to leave me unattended. SH

SH? He frowned at the screen. The dozy bastard had his number. How had he gotten that?

You're the one who drove off without me. JW

He added the JW in a way to mock his boss, though it probably didn't look that way.

With good intentions. I need you to pick up a few things before you arrive. SH

A double espresso, two sugars. A packet of Mayfair and an egg. SH

John blinked at the last text and frowned in confusion.

An egg? JW

Yes, problem? SH

No. No problem, I'll get those right away. JW

After gathering the required items, John found himself at The Beaufort Hotel. He walked inside, ignoring the way the doorman shunned him for daring to enter such a place dressed like that. He had a point though, John felt incredibly underdressed. He swallowed his nerves and walked up to the reception asking where he'd be able to find Sherlock Holmes. The young girl behind the counter asked for some identity and John handed her the ID his sister had sent him during the week.

"Room 264, sir." She answered, giving him a small smile and handing back the ID.

He thanked her and took the lift up to the third floor. "264" he muttered under his breath as he walked down the corridors searching for the right number. "Ah." He knocked lightly on the door, coffee in hand. Sherlock opened the door looking completely bored. At least he didn't wear those stupid glasses inside as well. That would just be embarrassing.

"Uh, coffee. Mr Holmes." He held out the said item and plunged in his pocket for the cigarettes.

Sherlock took the coffee and drained it on the spot and snatched the cigarettes taking one out the packet and lighting it eagerly. His shoulders slumped a little once he took a drag. Clearing relaxing as the nicotine hit his system. "The egg?" he asked, fag hanging from his bottom lip.

John carefully removed the egg from his jacket, still uncertain what its purpose was for. He handed it over to Sherlock but didn't bother to ask. He got the feeling this was the sort of thing Sherlock did as if it was normal. Sherlock took the egg and inspected it closely before looking up at John with a seemingly warm smile. "Call me Sherlock." Just as John was about to warm up to the man, thinking he wasn't as bad as everyone said. Sherlock took the egg and smashed it against the top of John's head, causing yolk to dribble down his hair and onto his cheek. "Don't be late again." He warned, with a dark grin and a wink. He walked back into the room leaving John to stand in the doorway completely baffled and covered in egg.

Perhaps things were going to be a bit trickier than he first envisioned.


	2. Chapter 2

After wiping a hand through his hair, to push the yolk away from his face. John sheepishly walked into the room to find Sherlock spread out across the bed, limbs dangling over the sides. He rolled his eyes and set into the bathroom to wipe away the egg shells and yolk with a towel. Once he remerged, Sherlock was sat cross-legged on the bed staring intently in John's direction.

"I know doctors aren't exactly known for their punctuality but I was expecting you to be here to greet me. Not the other way around. It's highly unprofessional and I shan't allow it to continue. Is that clear?" Sherlock issued, his voice sounded bored but had an underlying tone of threatening.

"Crystal." John replied, looking as bored as Sherlock sounded. He didn't bother asking how he knew he was a doctor. Probably looked at his file. He'd managed to get his number, it didn't exactly surprise him he'd be able to find other stuff too. He took out the notepad Harry had given him. It contained dates for all the tours, travel, hotels and extra press schedules inbetween. He frowned when he saw today was blank.

"There's nothing scheduled today. So what am I doing here?" He looked up at Sherlock who was smirking as he lay seductively on the bed.

"Sex." He answered simply. "Assistants find it hard to work with me without swooning every five minutes. So I like to get that part out of the way first. I can't be distracted from my work."

John's mouth hung open. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or punch him. He seemed serious on all accounts. Sherlock just lay there waiting for him. Yup, he was definitely not kidding around.

"I'm sorry. I think you have me confused with a blond female, dressed in lingerie and bunny ears," he said dryly as he shoved the notepad back in his jacket pocket and headed for the door.

Sherlock for his part didn't look hurt at all. He just sat up on the bed and grinned. If John was looking he might have even caught a flicker of surprise in the musician's eyes. That was new, he thought. Perhaps he will be of use yet. He's certainly better than that girl from last month. He shuddered at the thought. No, he certainly didn't need a repeat of that. No, John just seemed to be in it for the work. This would be entirely beneficial for Sherlock because that's all he cared about. The work.

"Shame, you'd have looked good in heels," Sherlock smirked teasingly.

John wasn't sure how to respond to that. He just rolled his eyes and left the room.

Sherlock laughed and flopped back down on the bed. This was certainly going to be interesting. He had spent the last 17 months trying to get back on top. He'd gone to rehab for about four months cleaning up his act and the last 13 months he'd spent writing new songs, new performances, new everything. This tour was his ticket back. He needed to stay on form and John might just be of use.

John was in the lobby, fumbling angrily with the buttons on his phone. He punched the number in and put the phone to his ear.

"What have you done?" he asked as calmly as possible.

Harry could be heard on the other end giggling away, "Whoops."

John had pushed through the doors of the hotel and was making his way back home. "Whoops?" he echoed, his voice was on the edge of lashing out. "I could have been sat on my arse all day today, playing Mario Kart or some shit but instead you send me to some swanky hotel, where in the proceedings I get hit by a car, whored out and turned in to a fucking omelette!" he screeched.

"Johnny, you're a big boy. I thought you could handle yourself," she said calmly.

"I can handle myself," he argued, crossing the street.

"Then that's settled. Good luck," she smiled and hung up.

John growled in annoyance but resisted the urge to throw his phone this time. By the time he got home, it was around lunch time. He'd spent what little money he had left on Sherlock's required items so he skipped lunch. He returned to his room, deciding to try and sleep through the day. Nothing exciting was going to happen anyway. He stopped in the doorway when he found a brown parcel on his bed. He frowned, he hadn't been expecting anything. He took a step forward and peeled the post stick note off the front. It read:

**RED IS MORE YOUR COLOUR. – SH**

John frowned, was there anything this man didn't know? He seemed to know where he lived because that wasn't frightening at all. John opened the brown parcel to find a new grey shirt, black trousers and skinny tie. Uniform then, he presumed. At least now he wouldn't feel so out of place when they went anywhere fancy. This would be all the time, considering it was Sherlock bloody Holmes. He picked up the shirt and went to the mirror, holding it in place to check the size. Pretty spot on too. You could almost say John was impressed. Until he noticed what had fallen out the folded shirt and was now lying on the floor. His jaw clenched as he picked up the offending item and holding it at arm's length. In his hand, was a pair of red lace knickers. "Fucking arse," he muttered.

* * *

The next day, John managed to wake up at a more reasonable hour. He showered, shaved and was relieved to find a credit card sat on the kitchen table with a note from his sister:

**Company card. Don't blow it all on hookers. Love Harry xx**

He chuckled and rolled his eyes. He took the card along with his phone and shoved them in his pocket as he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. He'd skimmed through the notepad the previous night, so today he was feeling a little less disorientated about what he had to do. He'd received a text from Sherlock asking him to pick up coffee and muffins on the way. At least nothing unusual today, he thought, still the day had only just begun.

Carrying a box full of pastries and coffee, he entered a rather large building. The head office of Vogue to be precise. Today Sherlock was modelling the latest fashions in an exclusive for Vogue. Sounded pretty straight forward, John would just stand to the side and let him get on with it. If he asked for something he'd get it. Harry was right, this seemed pretty easy considering how much he was getting paid.

He walked in the room to find clothes being carried back and forth, a group of thirty something's squabbling about how something wasn't the right blue. Behind them were various sets being set up, all with from what John could tell, a rebellious theme. Men and woman alike where all running frantically about trying to prepare themselves for the arrival of one man.

John had been so busy watching with fascination he hadn't realised Sherlock was standing next to him. "Yes, much better," Sherlock commented, taking in John's new appearance. John jumped, turning to look up at the other man who was wearing skinny jeans, a tailored blazer and some sort of graphic tee. He looked like a completely different person from the man he saw yesterday. It was slightly creepy how easily he could change just by his clothes.

"Coffee?" he offered, handing the cup to Sherlock. Sherlock silently took the cup and walked over to the costume ladies, sipping his coffee as he did so. John followed on ahead, taking a seat just outside the changing room. This way Sherlock could shout if he needed anything but also so John could stay out of people's way. It was absolutely manic. He'd never seen anything like it. How someone could start crying over something as unimportant as sequins. Sequins for fuck sake.

Sherlock re-entered the room a moment later, dressed in snug fitting jeans, white t-shirt and leather jacket. His hair was slicked back and had a few curls hang loose across his forehead. He walked over to John. Test two, Sherlock thought to himself. "What do you think?" he asked, watching John carefully.

John blinked for a moment, before putting on his best impressed face. He knew Sherlock was testing him. So John was just going to have to play along. "You look just like James Dean," he gushed.

It was Sherlock's turn to look a little lost, that he wasn't expecting. He'd expected John to ask him why it mattered, why he should care. "Oh. Thank you," he said sheepishly, not sure what to do now.

"After the accident." John added. That ought to shut him up for a bit, he thought. Resisting the urge to smirk. The look on Sherlock's face was satisfaction enough.

Sherlock scowled, he didn't like being bested at by his own game. "You're an arse," he replied.

"Yeah, likewise. Can you just get on with it, please? You have an interview with Buzz after this."

Sherlock didn't like to be told what to do either but John had a point. At least he was trying to keep things together. Maybe John would be useful despite how much he clearly hated Sherlock. So why was he trying so hard to keep him involved? He'd never bothered before. Then again, John was the first not to take up on the offer of sex the first day of the job. Interesting, he thought as he walked over to the sets and began posing for the photographer.

He didn't enjoy this part of the job. The interviews, the photographs, the documentaries. All he was interested in was the music. But he smiled and kept up appearances because without all these extra promotional material, he would still be playing in underground pubs. This would be fine of course but given the choice between the greatest stadiums in the world and a place where half the audience weren't there to listen to you play. The choice was obvious. So Sherlock continued to be pestered and treated like a puppet of the company if it allowed him the luxury to play.

The photo shoot went surprisingly well, John thought. He found it almost strange to see how nice Sherlock was being to everyone. He'd heard some rumours about him, well, from Adam and Matt anyway. He wasn't exactly the best of people to get on with. He had quite a temper on him too. Maybe sobering up had changed him? Either way he still treated John like shit but he supposed that was to be expected. To make sure he kept in line. He found he didn't mind once he found out how much he was getting paid. He could do this, he told himself. Just a few months and it'd be over.

* * *

The interview, however could have gone better. They were in room 263 of The Lanesborough Hotel. A woman in her early thirties, dressed in an expensive business suit greeted them and introduced herself as, "Kitty Riley, editor of Buzz Magazine. Pleasure." She held out her hand to greet Sherlock. Sherlock, ignored the hand and strode straight in. John sighed and shook her hand despite the look on her face which he could clearly tell meant 'Who the fuck are you and why should I care?' Wasn't the music business wonderful? John came and sat in one of the chairs near Sherlock. Kitty followed and sat opposite Sherlock, notebook in her lap and voice recorder at the ready.

It didn't surprise John one bit how Kitty had made it to the top of her profession. She knew exactly what she was doing, where to poke and how to intimidate her interviewees into finding out what she wanted. Sherlock, for his part played the role very well. He remained calm and placid, answering her questions with the bare minimum. It wasn't until she mentioned his brother that Sherlock's composure broke. It was only for a second but John had noticed it. The small twitch of his lips, forcing himself not grimace at the mention of his sibling. John found it curious, he wanted to know more himself but that clearly wasn't going to happen. Considering the way Sherlock was looking at Kitty, he suspecting staying clear from the subject of the brother would be a good idea.

Kitty smirked, she'd seen the twitch too. "So it's true then? What he did to you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Miss Riley," he said coldly, keeping his face neutral.

"Don't play the fool, Mr Holmes," she leaned forward in her seat. "We all have our little secrets."

The staring contest between Sherlock and Kitty was intense. John had to take it upon himself to break it up. Judging by the way Sherlock was gripping the arm of his chair, if he left them alone things wouldn't end too well.

"Okay, times up Sherlock. We've got to go," he lied, tapping his watch for emphasis. Sherlock reluctantly complied, still staring at Kitty as he stood and walked out the room.

Once out of the hotel and in Sherlock's car. Sherlock finally spoke to John.

"What you did in there, it was good. Thank you," he said awkwardly. He rarely apologised but considering the circumstances it was necessary. If it wasn't for John something not so good could have been brought to light. That was the last thing he needed when he was trying to get back on top.

"Just doing my job," John shrugged a little bewildered that Sherlock actually had manners. When he could be bothered of course. They spent the rest of the journey in silence. Sherlock dropped John home and John informed him to be ready at 7:00 for the Radio4 broadcast tomorrow morning. Sherlock merely grunted in response, busying himself with his phone.

* * *

John awoke in the early hours of the morning to a light thump on the front door. He groaned, slipping out of bed in just his boxers, his hair sticking up on end. He answered the door with a tennis racket in his hand. His eyes widened when he saw the familiar figure standing in front of him.

"Jesus," he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Sherlock smirked, "Close enough." He was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday and watching John very closely. It was only then did John realise how underdressed he was. His cheeks turned slightly red in embarrassment but he pretended not to be bothered by it.

"Can I help you, your highness?" he said dryly, leaning the tennis racket against the wall.

Sherlock strolled in trying not grimace at the state of the flat, "Yes," he replied, turning the look at John. "I need you to tie me to your bed," he announced casually.

John raised his eyebrows in shock, it was just going to be one of those nights.

* * *

_**Hello, I'm sorry for those of you reading this thinking it is complete twaddle. I just had the idea and wanted to write it down. I hope you enjoy it though. I'm not sure whether to keep writing or not. Your thoughts are always appreciated.**_


	3. Chapter 3

John laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked down at the floor, finding nothing more fascinating at this moment than his shoes. "Flattered, really..."

"Having second thoughts?" Sherlock interrupted with a wink. "As amusing as it would be to wake you in the middle of the night to demand of you rampant sex whilst tied to your bed. I am afraid that's not why I am here," he said dryly, pacing slightly around John. John looked slightly disappointed, though he assured himself it was confusion.

"Right, so why else would you want me to tie you to my bed?" he queried still not following.

"My landlady is out," he remarked as if it were obvious. He looked through the rooms before finding what he presumed to be John's bedroom. Leaving John completely bewildered, again.

"Sorry, your landlady aids you in this…fucked up pantomime?" he chuckled.

Sherlock flopped down on the bed, placing his hands and feet where John could bind them to the posts. "Yes," he answered casually. He looked up to see John a mixture between complete hysterics and confusion. "Perhaps I should explain."

"No. It's fine, I tie my national pop star bosses up all the time. It's like second nature," he smirked.

Despite himself, Sherlock's lips twitch upward briefly. "I'm having a rough patch. I mustn't give into certain temptations. My landlady is out for the week and I need someone to help assist with securing me down," he explained. "I've been known to wonder the streets at all hours looking for a fix. Old habits die hard and what not."

John nodded, at least Sherlock was beginning to make a bit more sense now. Although, why would he come to him? He'd known him since…Monday. Didn't he have any friends? "Right. No, sorry. Why do I have to tie you down? I could just watch you, there's no need to go all medieval," he suggested.

Sherlock shook his head, "Impractical. You need your sleep and I can easily over power you."

John huffed and crossed his arms over his bare chest, "I doubt that, you're nothing but bones."

"Left shoulder, prone to dislocate. It's never healed properly since the rugby match from your days at school. One precise hit and I'll be out the door before you hit the ground," he mentioned casually, his tone one of boredom and disinterest.

John frowned, "How did you-" That wouldn't have been in the file. His number and address he'd guessed Sherlock found out from his file but that. That was personal. How the fuck did he know that?

"I observed," he interrupted. "The faint scars and markings around the skin indicate the shoulder has dislocated. The markings have deepened where it has happened numerous times. Now as for the rugby match, the trophies under your bed are clearly those from rugby tournaments. If they were recent you'd be more proud of them, put them on display. So these are more likely lost memories of your rugby days at school. Linking the two was a fairly easy step to make, given the photograph over there," he explained at full speed and pointed over to where a few framed photographs sat.

"Photograph?" John asked, feeling both exposed and completely enticed by the man's observations.

"Yes. The photograph is of a rugby team but you're not in the picture. As it is pretty clear this was your team and not one you support , the only logical conclusion was this is the game you were injured, thus why you're not in the photograph," he informed, lying back on the bed.

John stood above him with wide eyes and a limp jaw. Bloody hell, John thought. The man was a genius. He made it sound so simple. "Is it too late to take you up on that offer?" he joked.

Sherlock chuckled, "Afraid so. Now tie me up will you, you need to sleep."

John nodded and rummaged through his draws finding two belts, a scarf and a pair of handcuffs. Whilst John looked around for things to tie Sherlock up with, Sherlock observed the small room. His eyes were drawn to a pile of his CDs, DVDs and the pair of red knickers Sherlock had sent him.

"That's quite a collection there. Throw in a few candles and you'll have yourself a neat little shrine," he smirked, indicating to John the direction he was looking in.

John looked over to the pile collecting dust on his desk, "Oh, those are Adam's."

"Even the underwear?" he asked innocently, a knowing grin spreading across his face.

"Actually no. Those are mine. Sent by some secret admirer," he grinned teasingly.

He began tying Sherlock up, securing the belts to his ankles and the bottom of the bed whilst the scarf and handcuffs kept his wrists in place at the top. He made sure they were on tight but not so much as to hurt Sherlock. Sherlock watching him curiously, tugging at the bonds to check his work.

"You've done this before. John, you dark horse," he smiled slyly.

"Shut up and go to sleep," he said ignoring Sherlock's comment.

Just as John was about to leave Sherlock spoke, his voice softer than usual. "Thank you, John."

John turned round and gave Sherlock a small smile before retreating into the living-room, he took a blanket and made himself comfortable on the sofa. He sat in the dark for a while wondering how his life had come to this. Just a few days ago he was depressed and in need of a job. Now he had Sherlock bloody Holmes tied to his bed. Adam and Matt where going to have a fucking field day if they ever found out.

* * *

The next morning Sherlock awoke feeling very stiff, it took him a moment for his brain to backtrack what had happened. He groaned slightly as the restraints felt heavy against his wrists. He rolled his head from side to side, working out the kinks in his neck. It wasn't until he'd given himself a moment to wake up did he hear the sound of crunching. He looked up puzzlingly to find a man in his mid-twenties, dressed in Iron Man pyjamas watching Sherlock very closely, eating a bowl of cereal.

Sherlock gave a weak fake smile, "You must be Adam."

* * *

John awoke to the sound of his phone alarm beeping. He groaned in protest at the sound and slammed his hand against where his bedside table usually was only to find it gone. He opened his eyes, wincing at the sudden contact with light. He was in the living room. Strange, he thought. He sat up and stretched his aching limbs before walking over to his bedroom to find Adam standing in the doorway. His brow creased in confusion, he peered over his shoulder to find Sherlock tied to his bed.

"Morning, John," Sherlock greeted casually.

Ah, yes. Now he remembered. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. Luckily for John, Adam just seemed content remaining silent and if a bit creepily, watching the pop star. At least he wasn't screaming the flat down or trying to jump him. That he could do without. He carefully tore Adam away from the door so he could get in. Adam let himself be manoeuvred, clearly still in shock to find Sherlock Holmes in his flat.

"He knows my name," he gushed, still staring over at Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes and pointed a finger at Adam. "Not a word," he warned.

Adam nodded and scuttled off into his room, clutching at his cereal as if it were treasure. John closed the door behind him, sighing as he rubbed a hand through his hair.

"I like his jammies" Sherlock chuckled. "Much more dignified, leaves something for the imagination." Sherlock was looking John up and down, referring to the fact John was just in his boxers. He let his eyes linger a little more than necessary.

John's jaw clenched, feeling very exposed. It was ludicrous how Sherlock could make him feel like that. Considering the man was tied to his bed, if anyone was to feel vulnerable here. It should have been him. "Apologies, I was unaware you were gracing us with your presence," he mocked.

"If you had been, what would you have worn?" Sherlock asked intriguingly, a cheeky grin on his lips.

John ignored the question and began untying the belts from around Sherlock's ankles.

"Does this happen often?" he ventured, turning his head to avoid Sherlock's glare.

"Not anymore, no." he said, his voice a mixture of triumph and irritation.

"So what happened?" he asked, setting to work on the second belt.

Sherlock remained silent, John looked up and caught a glimpse of something in Sherlock's eye.

"The interview," he deduced, trying to keep the joy out of his voice for guessing correctly. "What she said about your brother."

Sherlock's silence confirmed John's accusations. Though his eyes remained on John, his thoughts were else were. He was trying desperately to keep himself under control. His wrists straining against the bonds, as if to use the pain to focus him. John noticed, of course and laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder causing Sherlock's attentions to divert back to reality.

"It's alright. I don't want to know," he lied, his voice calm and reassuring. "Whatever fucked up sibling rivalry you have with your brother is none of my business. I'm just here to stop you from topping yourself. So if you could get your arse in the kitchen, grab yourself some breakfast. We'll be off." He undid the scarf and unlocked the cuffs on Sherlock's wrists, checking them for any damage.

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his wrists and staring up at John. He really didn't care, Sherlock mused. Either that or he had the decency to give Sherlock the privacy he craved. There wasn't much Sherlock kept secret. Well, he couldn't for long anyway. The press always found out some way or another so he remained a fairly open person. Letting the press know what they wanted so they wouldn't go snooping for other things. Worse things. So for John to treat him like a human and not some lapdog was…refreshing. He was grateful. He finally tore his gaze from John's and walked out the room giving the other a silent nod of appreciation.

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He quickly changed into his 'uniform' leaving the tie behind. He walked into the kitchen a few moments later to find Sherlock grimacing at the state of his fridge as he pulled out the milk. John was just glad he'd done a bit of shopping or things could have been completely embarrassing. No one wants to find mouldy cheese in the back of the fridge.

"Sorry 'bout the mess," he muttered, shuffling into the kitchen to help Sherlock.

"I've seen worse," Sherlock shrugged, handing a cup of coffee to John.

John took the cup and they drank in silence. John was trying to figure out whether Adam was planning on surprise attacking them before they left. He'd probably have to talk to him when he got back.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and checked his phone, "Car's here. Shall we?"

* * *

_Good morning listeners, this is Sally Donovan with the breakfast show and you are listening to Radio4. Stay tuned because joining us this morning is the wild cat of London town, Sherlock Holmes. He'll be telling us about all about his new tour and giving us a sneak listen to his new song, Northern Skies._

[Cuts to commercials]

Sherlock was sat opposite Sally being wired up with headphones and a microphone. John had been asked to sit outside the glass booth whilst they recorded. John took this opportunity to catch up with Harry and sort out the rescheduling he may have missed. Sally pulled down her headphones as the commercials played. She leaned across the docking system to get a good look at Sherlock.

"Good to have you back, freak. Let's not have a repeat of last time, shall we?" she smirked.

"If you haven't noticed, those days are behind me. However, you were probably too busy checking the acoustics of the sound booth with Anderson. Judging by the state of the glass," he said, glaring at her with utter disgust.

Sally turned bright red and the muffled sound of laughter and gossiping could be heard from behind the other side of the booth. Sherlock allowed a small smirk to tug at his lips as he adjusted his headphones. Sally pulled herself back together as the red light reappeared.

_Welcome back, today on the breakfast show, Sherlock Holmes joins us. Good morning Sherlock._

**Good morning.**

Although their hatred for each other was clear, both cared about their careers and maintained a professional approach to the interview. John was quite grateful for this. He wasn't sure he was willing to tackle Sherlock Holmes away from a microphone his third day on the job.

_You're here to talk about your latest tour. Is there anything we can expect to see?_

**Well, Sally. The tour is completely new. New material in every way. I have spent the last year or so devising new costumes, performances, songs and routines. Hopefully I have found something for everybody. **

_You've been known famously for your variety in style, don't you wish you could stick to just one?_

**Perhaps. There have been times, where I would have liked to pursue a particular style. However, I have the ability to play various instruments, as you know. I'd hate to deny the public their chance to listen to my music in all its forms. That's what it's all about, the music.**

_That being said, some would say your performances are a little over the top. I've even heard you have a few scars to tell the tale. _

_[Both chuckling]_

**Yes, the rope was a little lower than first initiated. If it wasn't for Steve, the stunt co-ordinator, all my hair would have been singed off. Although, that's just part of the fun. People pay good money to come and see my show. I want to give them something they'll remember. I hardly doubt me sweating on stage for two hours with a guitar in hand has the same appeal.**

[Both chuckling]

_Sounds like your fans are in for a real treat. Do you mind if we take a quick break?_

**Not at all.**

_Stick around, we'll be talking with Sherlock Holmes a bit more later on. If you have any questions or comments for him then now is your chance. Tweet or text us your questions on the usual number. We'll be right back, but first, here's a bit of Bohemian Rhapsody to start your day._

The song started and the light turned off. Sally gave out a frustrated sigh and threw down her headphones. Sherlock just leant back in his chair and chuckled. He knew she'd picked the longest song possible to gain, in her eyes, a well-deserved break from talking to him. Sally knew he knew this too.

"Shut the fuck up or that microphone is going so far up your arse you won't walk properly for a month," she fumed, clearly still agitated from his last comment.

"Oh, how I love it when you talk dirty to me," he winked, taking it all in his stride.

Sally growled in annoyance, spinning in her chair. Her hands where in her hair, clearly not handling Sherlock too well today. "Just play your god damn song and get out," she snapped. The light blinked red, a three second warning before they were back on air. She pulled a few leavers and buttons as the song died out and they were back in the studio.

_That was Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. If you've just tuned in, Sherlock Holmes is in the studio with us this morning and is answering your questions. I've got one hear from Amber, she asks: Have you seen the latest Marvel Movie; The Avengers? If so, which is your favourite? Mine is Black Widow._

**I think I'm going to have to disagree with you there. Iron Man is my favourite. **

_Got another one here from Patrick. He says he's a big fan of your work and aspires to be a great musician like you. Do you have any advice?_

**Thank you, Patrick. My advice to you would be to keep practising, if you think you know something by heart, challenge yourself. Combined your own work into the mix, keep it fresh.**

_Okay, unfortunately that's all the time we have here. Sherlock, thank you for joining us this morning._

**Pleasure.**

_Coming right up Sherlock will be playing his latest hit, Northern Skies. But first the news with Anderson. Don't go away._

[Music plays out as the show transfers over to the news.]

"Get the fuck out," Sally said slowly, clearly trying to control herself from throwing the desk at him.

"With pleasure, Sally," he snarled, placing the headphones on the desk and walking out the room.

* * *

John was sat outside on a bench, once he'd spoken with Harry about the tour. He'd sat back and watched Sherlock go to work. However, what he saw was not what he was expecting.

"What the fuck was that?" he asked in disbelief.

Sherlock frowned, "What was what?"

"That." He gestured to inside the booth. "Where were the snarky comments? The arsehole that IS Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked hurt but the expression vanished with a blink of the eye. "I'm trying to set a good example, my dear. It's called manners. Plus I doubt it would be deemed appropriate to call Sally 'a fuck bucket' on national radio at eight in the morning," he grinned.

"Right. Okay, fine," John agreed with a small smile "What about that Avengers thing, with Iron Man? I wouldn't have thought you were into that sort of thing."

"I'm not. I prefer the classics when it comes to movies," he shrugged, walking over to the sound booth.

"So, how did you know what to say?" he asked.

"I told you. I liked his jammies," he winked before entering the sound booth.

John shook his head. The man was insane. He'd managed to not look like a complete twat on national radio because he'd happened to see Adam's pyjamas this morning. Ridiculous.

The lights went back on and Sally introduced Sherlock's latest single, Northern Skies. John turned his attentions to the glace booth where Sherlock's stance and posture had taken on a completely new roll. He had a classical guitar in his hand and was strumming out a soft melody that filled the room.

_Tram wires, across the northern skies,  
__Cut my blue heart in two._

The soft, angelic voice that escaped from Sherlock caused John to double take. He didn't look or act like Sherlock at all. His eyes were screwed shut, his fingers keeping time against the strings. His shoulders were less tense, his posture was slightly hunch over, crowding the microphone. At one point John was pretty sure he was going to eat it, he was standing so close. John was really starting to wish he'd listened to those CD's. This was fucking beautiful.

_My knuckles bleed,  
__Down the tattered street._

Sally broke the spell that Sherlock's music had cast over John as she said, "Stay away from him."

"I'm sorry, what?" he blinked, turning to look over at Sally. Her arms were crossed and looking directly at John.

"He's trouble," she sneered.

"He has a past of alcohol and drug abuse. I wasn't exactly expecting a saint," he scoffed. Although, if Sherlock kept playing like this he might just change John's mind yet.

Sally huffed in annoyance. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

_On a door that shouldn't be,  
__In front of me._

Once the song ended, Sherlock smiled to himself. It felt good to be back. In his opinion, his songs had never sounded better. His lyric writing and composing were improving. As he packed away his guitar, he caught John smiling at him. He couldn't help but return the smile.

This tour could just be the making of him, or make him worse than ever.

* * *

**Thank you for those of you reading. I'm sorry if this isn't how you were expecting it to go. If I'm honest, I'm just making it up as I go alone. So if you guys have any ideas, something you want me to include then by all means let me know. I'm open to ideas. The lyrics are from the opening credit sequence to Wallander. I thought they were pretty so just shoved them in there. Hope you're all enjoying this. **


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had his guitar slung across his back. John was just about managing to follow alongside, flicking through his note book. "Next stop: Angelo's. Lunch with the tour manager." Despite Sherlock's groan in protest, John managed to get him into the car and get to Angelo's on time.

Once there, the owner himself greeted Sherlock and led them to his regular table. The restaurant was quiet and John could see why he came here. No one seemed to be bothered by Sherlock's presence. The perfect place to be able to eat out in peace. Sherlock took the corner seat and remained looking out the window whilst John decided to look at the menu and ordered a cup of tea.

Once his tea arrived he decided to get Sherlock out of his mood. They'd been doing okay so far. "Come on it can't be that bad," he said, flashing a smile.

Sherlock turned his head from the window to John, glaring at him as if he'd just asked him to cover himself in Angel Delight and get his mother to lick it off. "You've never met her."

"Oh, you've had her before?" he asked, he'd assumed everything was new. Including the staff.

Sherlock shuddered at the use of John's words. Though John was too busy drinking his tea to notice. He swivelled in his seat to turn his attention back to John. "She's been through all my tours. She's insufferable, stubborn..." Sherlock began.

"Gorgeous..." a woman added, standing behind Sherlock with a sly smile. She was fairly pale which contrasted with the rich colour of her red lips. Her blue eyes shone bright through the dramatic black eyeliner which surrounded them. Her hair pinned up, with a few stray curls framing the side of her face. She wore a white lace dress which highlighted her curves perfectly. To put it simply, not what John was expecting at all. For someone who has as stressful job as hers she looked amazing.

"Repugnant," Sherlock corrected, not bothering to looking up at the woman behind him.

"Intelligent," she continued, leaning down so her lips were to his ear.

Sherlock shivered at the touch, wrinkling his nose. He was going to argue with her but she had a point. Despite everything she was clever and Sherlock hated her for it. "…but she gets the job done." He decided on ending with which he was rewarded with from a kiss to the cheek by the woman.

"Good answer," she smiled, sitting in between Sherlock and John. She turned her attention to John who was drinking his tea watching with curiosity at the little back and forth between the two of them.

"My name's Irene. Irene Adler," she introduced. She traced a finger down John's jaw, inspecting him carefully. John raised a questioning eyebrow and put his cup back on the table.

"Sherlock, I think I found your bunny," he commented wishing the woman would stop prodding him. Sherlock smirked slightly glancing over at John briefly.

The woman didn't look too pleased. If anything, she looked confused. "You didn't sleep with him?"

"No," John answered simply, not bothering to ask how she knew. He just assumed she knew all about Sherlock's habits.

"Well that's a first," she blinked. Her hand soon came into contact with his knee and was sliding up his thigh.

"I'm also not interested," he remarked, shifting her hand from his thigh to her own lap.

"Shame," she shrugged her voice disinterested. "I like a man with meat on his bones." She looked over at Sherlock and winked.

"Can we just get on please?" Sherlock huffed, running a hand through his curls.

"I'm only teasing, honey. Lighten up." She retrieved a book from her handbag and began exchanging dates with John about the tour. "40 dates. You think you can handle that?" she asked.

"Yeah, no. Seems pretty straight forward." John nodded, writing the information in his own book.

"I wasn't talking to you, pumpkin." She raised an eyebrow and looked over at Sherlock who was leaning back in his chair. He frowned when he realised she was referring to him.

"I can do it," he pouted. "What makes you think I can't do it?"

"Well, your track record isn't exactly up to scratch," she remarked, glaring at him.

"That's behind me," he said with a wave of his hand. "I'm clean now. I can do it."

"Funnily enough, I don't believe you," she said, her voice one of a mocking tone yet a little disappointed.

Sherlock sighed and leaned forward, his hand reaching for hers, "Renée, please."

This caused Irene's eyes to widen slightly. He hadn't called her that in years. No one called her that anymore. Not since things with Sherlock took a turn for the worse. Her attention was solely on him.

"I need you to believe me. I've been clean for almost two years. This tour is going to change everything," he insisted, his eyes screaming at her to hear his words as true.

Her smile widened as she squeezed Sherlock's hand lightly, "Welcome back, Sherly. Thought I lost you for a while there." She turned back to look at John, "40 dates. Whatever you're doing, keep it up. It seems to be working." John was going to argue that he hadn't done anything but she'd already grabbed her things and left, muttering something in French that Sherlock seemed to understand.

"Please don't tell me you know French." John moaned, slamming his head on the table.

"Je sais bien français. Ne soyez pas absurde," he shrugged with a devious grin.

(_Of course I know French. Don't be absurd.)_

"Oh God, that's sexy. Stop it. Stop being so talented."

Sherlock laughed, "I'd thought you'd have known I speak French. I sing in French, it's on one of the albums in your bedroom."

John knew what he was doing tonight. "Yeah, about that. I haven't actually listened to your stuff. In fact, the first time I've heard you sing was today."

"Oh." Sherlock wasn't sure why but he felt disappointed and a bit angry and John. He wanted him to have heard his music. He needed to know what he thought of it. Everyone else had who'd worked with him had, so why hadn't John? Why wasn't John praising him about today? John was holding back and he needed to know all that he could. "What did you think?" he asked casually.

John's lips twisted, "I don't know. Hard to tell from just one song." He could see Sherlock was just dying to know what he thought but he wouldn't let the cat out of the bag just yet.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but decided against it. If that's the way John was going to play things, then fine. He'd wait. "Shall we order?" he asked, picking up a menu.

* * *

The rest of the day had gone off without a hitch. They'd gone down to the Apollo Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue to meet up with the rest of the crew and performers. Sherlock had given them each a notebook which they had to follow precisely when setting up for the show. In just a few days, they'd be back and Sherlock would be on the stage singing to an audience. John thought it was silly how excited he was for all of this. Just hearing Sherlock today gave him goosebumps. He couldn't imagine what the full on performance would do to him.

Once he was home, he headed straight to his room and started listening to Sherlock sing. He lay on his bed, headphones on and closed his eyes as he let the music flow over him. It wasn't until the early hours of the morning was he awoken by a knock at the door. He inhaled sharply as he sat up in his bed. He must have fallen asleep, he told himself. He rubbed at his eyes and looked around the room before grinning wildly at his desk.

When he finally opened the door, he was bare chested, with blue striped pyjama bottoms on and the red knickers Sherlock had sent him just visible above the waistband of his nightwear. He leaned against the doorframe and stared up at Sherlock with a playful grin. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow as his eyes were drawn to John's lower half. He tried to keep a straight face, "Are you trying to seduce me?"

"I prefer a man with meat on his bones," he winked, doing his best to impersonate Irene.

Both of them stood in silence for a moment, staring at each other before bursting into hysterics.

John stood aside, letting Sherlock in and closed the door behind him. "What are you doing here? Another trigger?" he asked with concern.

Sherlock's laughter subsiding, he turned to look at John. "Actually no. I just popped by for a quick fuck," he smirked, walking to John's bedroom.

John laughed, shaking his head. "You're mad."

Sherlock grabbed John by the waist and pushed him playfully against the wall. "And you're sexy. Come on John just a quickie," he pouted, a certain puppy dog look in his eyes.

"Give over. Get on the bed," he ordered, giggling as he pushed Sherlock away.

Sherlock chuckled and obliged, lying on John's bed as he had the night before. John began tying Sherlock up. This was beginning to become a bit of a thing. Perhaps he should pack the belts in case Sherlock goes loopy on tour. He gave himself a note to remember the belts. Sherlock looked over at the headphones and CDs lying carelessly on John's desk. He smiled and looked down at John.

"You've listened then," he grinned.

"Yes," John answered, tying the scarf and handcuffs to Sherlock's wrists.

"What did you think?"

"What's this thing with your brother?" he ventured, ignoring Sherlock's question. "I know it's not my business but if I'm going to have to do this for the next few months I think I should know at least a little. Maybe I can help?"

Sherlock turned away, not looking at John. He should have seen this coming. He was surprised John hadn't asked sooner. But now he was tied to a bed and had nowhere to hide. He considered the pros and cons of telling John. What John had said was true. He was doing everything Sherlock had asked of him. No questions asked, perhaps he decided to know just a little.

"You can't. I appreciate your concern but there's nothing you can do. I'll be fine if you just keep doing this. It's just a dry patch. I'll get through it," he insisted, not wanting to bring John into this.

John just nodded and didn't press the matter further.

"You know what would look good with those panties?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject. "A pair of killer heels."

John snorted as he let out a laugh, "Would you stop it? My flatmates going to think I'm a right nutter. He's already pestering me about why I had you tied to my bed. I don't need him thinking that I'm your escort."

"Would you like to be?" Sherlock grinned,

John just shook his head, "Go to sleep, Hefner."

Sherlock chuckled as John left the room and took to bed on the sofa for the second night in a row.

* * *

**Yes, I know this is a really short chapter. I'm sorry it's not the best. The next chapter should be a bit better, hopefully. Thank you for all the comments. They really make my day. I would reply to them but I have no idea how to. I'm not very good with functioning this website yet. Hope you're enjoying it. **


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning started off a lot better than the previous day, John managed to wake up earlier, shower, shave, and shop before Sherlock woke up. Once he untied him and led him into the kitchen. He had breakfast waiting for him, full English, pastries, cereal, coffee and orange juice.

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes, peering over at the food through his lashes. He looked up at John who was busy pouring two cups of coffee. "This wasn't necessary. Coffee will do just fine."

John raised an eyebrow, a look of disapproval crossed his face. "You are doing a run through today. You need the carbs," he ordered shoving a cup into the other's hand.

"Yes, doctor." He rolled his eyes and came and sat at the island, opposite John and began eating the full English that was soon pushed in front of him.

They sat in comfortable silence, eating breakfast. A few minutes later, Adam emerged from his bedroom. He was wearing his usual Iron Man pyjamas with a Jedi style dressing gown. Sherlock briefly looked up in his direction before returning his attention to his bacon. Adam sneaked into the kitchen, despite the fact Sherlock and John could see him. He poured himself a quick bowl of cornflakes and scurried off into the living-room and turned on the TV.

John gave Sherlock an apologetic look. Sherlock didn't seem to mind and just shrugged.

_If you've just joined us our top stories this morning…_

The morning news filled the room but neither John nor Sherlock were paying too much attention to it. They continued to eat in silence, exchanging comments here and there about nothing in particular.

_Sherlock Holmes, the musician who lives to entertain, will do just that over the upcoming months in his latest tour. Among his diehard fans it has been rumoured that such iconic stars such as Alan Carr, Billie Piper, James McAvoy and even Former Prime minister, Patrick Knight will be attending._

Sherlock's attention was drawn over to the television at the last name. He wrinkled his nose in disgust briefly, turning his face from John so he couldn't see. John, unlike Sherlock seemed to be excited by the news. "Bloody hell, the prime minister," John gasped, looking over at Sherlock. He frowned and tilted his head to the side when he saw Sherlock looking extremely white.

"You won't even know he's there. There's no need to get nervous," he smiled reassuringly.

Sherlock remained silent, his eyes looked empty and cold. He'd detached himself and gone to his happy place. He shut his eyes, breathed deeply and slowly opened them again to find John watching him carefully. "Jesus, you don't look so good," John commented, coming round the island to get a better look at Sherlock. He placed his hand on his forehead to check his temperature.

"I'm fine," he muttered, batting John's hand away. "I just need get to work."

Sherlock was already out the door, leaving John to grab a couple muffins and jog on after him.

* * *

Once they'd arrived at The Apollo Theatre, Sherlock seemed to be back to his usual self. John still kept an eye on him just in case but other than being a little harsher with the crew than John expected, he was just his regular self. John sighed and sat on the edge of the stage whilst Sherlock got changed for the first part of the dress rehearsal. According to Sarah, the wardrobe lady, there was a different costume for each song. It was fucking ridiculous. Yet John found himself feeling like a giddy schoolgirl waiting for the pop star to emerge.

Sherlock finally came out wearing the tightest leather pants John had ever seen. They should have been illegal. With this he wore a white t-shirt, leather jacket, and his hair was slicked back. The front of his hair was twisted in a slight curled quiff that hung just above his forehead. A few wolf whistles were issued on his arrival from the girls up in lighting. Sherlock strutted up to John. Yes, strutted. It should have looked ridiculous but all John could do was stare trying to keep his jaw from hanging.

"You look like fucking Danny Zuko," John giggled. He'd never be able to see Grease the same again.

Sherlock chuckled and came and sat by John on the edge of the stage. John winced, afraid Sherlock's trousers would rip but they seemed to still be in tacked. Sherlock sat close to John, to close in fact. "I thought you could put on a tight, very revealing jumpsuit. Some nice red pumps and we'll do a li'l number. What d'ya say, Sandy?" he winked, grinning ridiculously.

John shoved him away, "Would you stop pissing about? You've got work to do."

Sherlock pouted and began singing Sandra Dee as he twirled across to the centre of the stage. John chuckled, shaking his head as he jumped off the stage taking one of the empty seats. He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Harry whilst Sherlock began lecturing his dancers about posture.

What am I doing here again? JW

Saving my arse, that's what. Whatever you are doing keep it up. HW

John sighed, he hadn't actually done anything. Even Irene had told him to keep it up. He couldn't understand it. Sherlock didn't need him. He was doing fine on his own. He was actually quite tempted to just hand over his notebook to Sherlock and just leave him to it. Christ knows he'd probably do a better job than he was. Although something kept playing over in his head. Sherlock came to him for help that first night. Didn't he have friends? Maybe Sherlock saw him as more than an assistant. John hardly saw Sherlock as a boss. Maybe they were more equals than they realised.

Suddenly, the lights went down and the first song began causing John's thoughts to dissolve instantly. He watched as the dark empty stage suddenly came to life and the music began to play. Eight dancers, four woman and four men. The girls were dressed in slim fitting pink dresses that fell to just above their knees. A simple stamp rose pattern covered the dress. Their hair was tied up in a beehive fashion. The boys wore tailored grey suits, with slick backed hair and matching coloured ties to the girl's dresses. All of them stood in position, scattered across the stage as the lights dimly rose. They looked like dolls, eerily so. Each time the slow paced music hit a beat the dancers would stiffly move their arms and legs a step forward. They eventually hit the centre of the stage and the music stopped. The lights cut to black and the spot light fell on the group. As the light appeared, the dancers all fell backwards and hit the floor as Sherlock magically emerged from the middle of the crowd pushing them backwards. The spot light was solely on him, dressed in his rebellious attire.

The place was silent. All that could be heard was the angelic voice of Sherlock as he sang into the small microphone strapped to his cheek. The music picked up again and the lights went up, revealing the dancers as they kept in time with the beat. Sherlock continued to sing and swung his hips and danced as he prowled the stage. It wasn't until the chorus that Sherlock joined in sync with the dancers and John almost lost his mind. He was mentally kicking himself for never having seeing this man perform before. He was incredible. He couldn't take his eyes off of him. His hips were fucking hypnotising. John wasn't even sure how that was possible. He blamed the leather trousers. It was entirely fascinating, to watch the well-constructed routines of the dancers contrasted with the free spirit that was Sherlock Holmes.

He sat in awe watching until the song came to an end, he had to stop himself from getting too excited. He clapped when everyone else did and remained in his seat. He saw Irene walk towards Sherlock with an approving smile, she said something and Sherlock nodded before her attention drew over to the sound technicians.

John decided to go talk to Sherlock, feeling like he wasn't pulling his weight. "Can I get you anything?" Sherlock shook his head. His cheeks were tinted pink and his breath was a little faster than usual.

"I want you to go home and think about what you just saw," Sherlock stated.

John frowned, a little disappointed. "Shouldn't I get to see the whole thing first?"

"No. I want you to think about each performance separately. You're opinions are important. You'll see the next tomorrow." Sherlock was pushing John out the door but John was refusing to move.

"My jobs to make sure you do this properly. I can't do that if I'm at home," he was almost sulking.

Sherlock smiled, "I have Irene. Look, I'll promise to report to you later this evening."

John sighed and resigned, "Yeah. Alright just don't pull a muscle or anything."

"And miss an opportunity to get a rub down from my doctor," he teased with a playful smile.

John just rolled his eyes and left with a smile on his face.

* * *

John returned home to find no sign of Adam or Matt. He sighed gratefully, he could use some time on his own. It'd been a couple of hectic days. He almost shat himself when a familiar voice ripped through the silence of the flat.

"A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal," the voice said.

John followed the voice to the kitchen, finding Patrick Knight sat in his kitchen drinking a cup of tea. John's eyebrows raised in shocked. Having Sherlock Holmes tied to his bed was insane enough but now the bloody Prime Minister was in his flat drinking tea like it was the most common thing to do.

"I-I'm sorry?" he stuttered.

"Oscar Wilde," Patrick answered. "It's actually very relevant to your relationship to Sherlock Holmes."

Relationship? He wondered. "Why should that be any concern of yours?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive manner. Why should it be any concerns of the fucking prime minister? It didn't make any sense.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself," Patrick stood, straightening his suit and smiling vacantly over at John. "My name is Mycroft Holmes."

* * *

**So, you remember when I said the next chapter would be better? I sort of lied. I'm sorry. I'm away until Tuesday and I thought I should post something before I left. I've got an idea where I want to go with this but it's getting to that point that I'm struggling a little with so the next few chapters might be a little weak but after that it should be fine. Thank you to everyone that has commented, favourited and followed this story. The little notifications make my day. Enjoy! **


	6. Chapter 6

John stood with his mouth wide open, staring at the man in front of him. He didn't care how stupid he looked this was fucking huge. Patrick Knight was none other than the brother of music legend Sherlock Holmes. John blinked a few times trying to make sense of everything.

"I need a cup of tea," he muttered, passing the other and making himself a cup. It wasn't until he'd made tea did he sit down at the island - opposite the other man who looked surprisingly patient - before speaking again. "You're Sherlock's brother. I don't understand. I thought his brother owned the company not run the country."

Mycroft poured himself another cup of tea from the teapot. He noted the way John chose to make himself a fresh cup. Trust issues no doubt, interesting. "I think it'd be fair to assume I can do both," he stated simply before sipping at his tea.

John nodded "Right." He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "No, sorry. Still not getting it. Why did you change your name? What would be the point?" he asked.

"Protection," came the answer quickly. It wouldn't do for people to know his real name. Mycroft had worked very hard to keep people out of the dark about his past.

"For you or your brother?" John huffed, his patients wearing thin.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed a fraction. "I did what needed to be done."

"How's that working out for ya?" he mocked.

Mycroft ignored the question in favour of drinking the remains of his tea. "I'll appreciate if you keep this information to yourself."

John scoffed, "What's to stop me from telling everyone who you really are."

Mycroft allowed a small smile to trace his thin lips, "We both know you won't, Dr Watson. You care too much about Sherlock to allow that to happen."

John's jaw clenched, he straightened himself in a defensive manner. He knew Mycroft was right. Any ramification sent out on Mycroft would only hit Sherlock just as badly. The media would only link the two and all hell would break loose. He couldn't allow that to happen.

"I would also appreciate it," Mycroft continued, pulling a brown envelope from his jacket. "If you would keep me updated regarding my brother's whereabouts and habits." He slid the envelope over the table and set it in front of John.

John stared at it in horror and disgust, as if Mycroft had just slid a dildo across the kitchen counter. Although, he was a Holmes, that actually occurring wasn't as impossible as one might have thought. "You want me to spy on your brother?" he chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "You can shove it up your arse." He slid the envelope with force back across the table.

Mycroft placed the brown packet back in his jacket pocket, "You're loyal, very quickly."

"Get out of my flat," John said firmly pointing to the door, he didn't have the energy for this. Whatever was going on between the two brothers was none of his business. Sherlock didn't want to tell him so why should he have to put up with this shit. He stared at Mycroft not backing down. Mycroft rolled his eyes, clearly finding John's behaviour amusing but did as instructed nonetheless and left the flat without another word.

Once the door clicked shut, John slumped in his chair and breathed heavily through his mouth. He went into his bedroom and listened to Sherlock sing in French to let the anger wash away and his tension drain.

* * *

It wasn't until there was a knock at the door had he realised how long he'd been lying there. He'd been lying peacefully, listening to Sherlock's music for hours. It was a little embarrassing how easily he could do that. He answered the door with a soft smile finding Sherlock on the other side.

"Sherlock, you never told me your brother was so handsome," he teased, stepping aside to let the other in.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, his fists in balls by his side he stepped into the room. For the best part he tried not to look at John. He concentrated on the window by the far wall. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?" he asked. His voice was sober and his words hung heavy in the air.

"Yes but I didn't take it," John insisted.

Sherlock frowned, stopping in front of John's bedroom. His back was to John. "Why?"

"From what I can tell, that sod is just using me to find out how you're doing. If he wants to know he can ask you himself." John argued, taking a step towards Sherlock.

"I think he would find that difficult considering his restraining order," Sherlock commented, his voice cold and distant.

John blinked. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know. "Then all the more reason not to tell him."

Sherlock turned to look at John, the faintest of smiles traced his lips. He shuffled towards John, his head bowed as he reached out slowly and wrapped his arms around John. He leant his chin on John's shoulder and whispered softly in his ear. "Thank you."

John felt his spine tingle and his chest grew warm as Sherlock embraced him. He reciprocated the hug, hooking his arms under Sherlock's and folding them around Sherlock's middle. He couldn't believe this was the same Sherlock who'd spoken so coldly to Sally just a few days ago. This was clearly something that hit home hard. John wouldn't ask - quite frankly he wasn't sure he wanted to know what caused Sherlock to act like this – but he would be there for Sherlock.

He stepped out of Sherlock's arms and looked up at him with a bright smile. "Don't keep me waiting. How'd it go?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Not bad. It'll be better on the night. I work better with an audience."

John nodded, following as Sherlock walked into his bedroom. At this rate John should start charging him rent. Sherlock fumbled with his sock, sitting on the edge of the bed. John's eyebrows knitted together, "What are you doing?"

"I told you, I require a rubdown from my doctor," he smirked.

John sighed out a laugh. He thought he was kidding when he'd said that. Sherlock's pleading eyes weren't helping John resist the urge to say yes either. "Fine," he sighed. He sat on the bed, his back against the wall. Sherlock laid down in the middle of the bed and put his feet in John's lap.

John began massaging Sherlock's feet, not minding so much once Sherlock let out a satisfactory sigh. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, he'd been dancing and on his feet all day. It felt nice to relax the muscles. He wondered if John would be willing to do this for him throughout the tour. He had a feeling there wasn't much the good doctor wouldn't do for him. The thought made him smile.

"By all means keep me in suspense. I want to know what you thought." Sherlock finally said.

John was so busy kneading circles into Sherlock's foot with his thumb, the voice made him jump. "What? Oh, it was good," he muttered, concentrating on Sherlock's feet.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Good?" he repeated, his voice implying this was not the response he was expecting.

"Alright. It was bloody brilliant." John folded.

Sherlock grinned triumphantly.

"Although." John continued. "I felt it was a bit…" he trailed off, trying to come up with the best word.

"A bit, what?" Sherlock asked, his smile faltered.

"…over-dramatic." John answered, unsure if that was the right word. "It was amazing, don't get me wrong. What you do with your hips…I'm pretty sure that's illegal." This caused Sherlock to smirk. "It's just, I didn't feel it. Y'know? What you did at Radio4. I felt like I was intruding, it was raw, personal," he tried to explain but ended up sounding like one of Sherlock's teenage fans.

Sherlock for his part, didn't look offended at all. "I know what you mean," he nodded. "However, every song is different. Some are over the top, some are purely instrumentals. I find it keeps my music alive if I'm constantly changing style. No one wants to hear an album that sounds all the same. It also keeps the audience on their toes. It makes every performance different," Sherlock explained.

"I don't know about the album thing, I could listen to you sing in French all day," he said, blushing slightly at the realisation that he had done just that.

Sherlock chuckled, finally opening his eyes to look at John. John smiled and switched feet, rubbing his hands soothingly against the base of his foot causing a low hum to escape Sherlock.

"Am I allowed to see the show tomorrow or is there something you need me to do?" he asked after a moment of silence.

Sherlock considered this briefly before answering. "You can listen up until the second song. Then I need you to do a few things for me. I'll text you the list."

John looked disappointed but he knew he had a job to do. He'd have the rest of the tour to get to listen to the rest. He nodded and continued massaging Sherlock's feet. "Have you got any last night rituals?" he asked. "Y'know before you begin a show?"

"Yes. I dress up in woman's undergarments and parade around my living room. It's a thing of confidence, you see," Sherlock replied with the straightest face he could muster.

John wasn't sure whether he was joking or not. It sounded plausible, this was Sherlock Holmes after all. John had stopped rubbing Sherlock's feet and was just staring at Sherlock in disbelief, trying to keep the image of Sherlock in woman's underwear out of his head.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, seeing John look a mixture between perplexed and...interest? Was that what that was. Just a small flicker of it but undoubtedly there. Interesting. "Yes, but it doesn't look as good as you do in those." Sherlock said, pointing to the red underwear John had worn previously as a joke. John rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Sherlock's feet still in his lap.

The night continued to be a mixture of laughs, idiotic ramblings and Sherlock signing in French. Sherlock worn out from the day, soon fell asleep from the lullaby melody of his own singing. John shook his head, smiling fondly. The man was completely insane. He yawned softly, stretching out his back as he lifted Sherlock's feet from his lap and headed into the living room to sleep on the sofa.

* * *

The next day was far more hectic. Tonight was the first night of the tour and everyone was running around like headless chickens making sure everything was just right. John wasn't sure whether this was because they too wanted to do a job well done or because they were afraid of what would happen if either Sherlock or Irene found out about their mistakes.

Irene, for her part was in yet another elegant yet smart dress. Clipboard in hand and a headset around her neck, talking into the little microphone as she walked around setting up with the rest of the crew. John walked up to Sherlock, handing him a coffee. There was three hours left and Sherlock just seemed to stand there, pacing and mumbling to himself. He was visualising his performances, seeking out the flaws. Every so often he'd shout abuse at Irene and send her to fix things.

John felt pretty redundant just standing there so offered to help earn his pay and carry the equipment or set up merchandise tables. Just little things here and there until Sherlock needed something. He was in the middle of helping lay out t-shirts and CDs when he heard Sherlock singing.

_Send away for a priceless gift,_

_One not subtle, one not on the list._

_Send away for a perfect world,_

_One not simply, so absurd._

He peered around the door and into the theatre, seeing Sherlock still dressed in his usual clothes - If you could call it that - and playing the guitar for the sound technicians to adjust the speakers and microphones accordingly. John found himself staring over at Sherlock. He couldn't get enough of his voice, every time he sang he could feel himself being beckoned to listen.

_In these times of doing what you're told,_

_Keep these feelings, no one knows._

_What ever happened to the young man's heart,_

_Swallowed by pain, as he slowly fell apart._

Sherlock was standing in the centre of the stage, radio microphone strapped to his cheek and strumming the strings of the guitar at a reasonable pace. His head bowed over the guitar and his eyes were squeezed shut. He walked around the stage, keeping his head low and concentrating on the lyrics.

There was a bit of commotion up in the scaffolding. The girls operating the lights seemed to have fallen for Sherlock's voice too and had only just realised they had a job to do. They fumbled with the control deck and the lights finally came into life. As did Sherlock, the song picked up and Sherlock sung louder. His whole body moving into the movement he made to pluck at the strings. He really was going for it. John's eyes widened slightly, he looked so vulnerable up there. Wearing his emotions on his sleeves as he played. Certainly a different Sherlock to the one he showed the press.

John began to count, he was pretty sure there were about 12 different Sherlock's that he knew. Thankfully they were all inside one person. Twelve actual human beings with the image of Sherlock would be too much.

_And I'm staring down the barrel of a 45,_

_I'm swimming through the ashes of another life._

_There's no real reason to accept the way things have change,_

_Staring down the barrel of a 45._

Despite the fact the lyrics hung heavy in the air, the timing of the song was perfect. Reasonably light-hearted and very catchy. John was enticed by Sherlock's voice. He found himself walking towards the stage but stopped himself after a few steps and went back to what he was doing.

This is just a job, John told himself, don't get too attached. He turned back to see Sherlock still enthralled in song, giving it everything. Despite himself, John smiled.

"Too late." John sighed, shaking his head and returning to the merchandise table.

* * *

**Hello, thank you so much for all your comments, follows and favourites. They mean a lot to me. Uh, I'm sorry for keeping people waiting. I've been putting this off. I'm not sure why, I just really couldn't get into it. Hopefully another chapter will be uploaded soon, if anyone is still interested that is. The song is Shinedown - 45. Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

The next few hours flew by. Anna, the merchandise woman had thanked him for his help but told him he should get back to Sherlock before it got busy. John frowned, the place already seemed fairly busy how much worse could it get?

Much worse, as John found out.

John was sat back stage in Sherlock's dressing room. He was sitting casually in one of the armchairs, his legs dangling over the side. He could hear the chaotic screams and cheering as the crowd waited eagerly for their favourite pop star to appear. It sounded absolutely packed. The show didn't even start for another fifteen minutes and they already sounded like they were all in the theatre waiting.

Sherlock was kitted out in the first costume, the only one he had actually seen so far. Those tight leather trousers were annoyingly distracting, John had found his gaze lowering there when Sherlock wasn't looking but he just couldn't help himself. He told himself anyone else would do the same so that made him feel a little more at ease but still felt annoyed he could be so easily enthralled by a pair of trousers. He wasn't a horny schoolgirl for Christ sake.

Sherlock was fiddling with his hair after he'd shouted at the hairstylist to leave for being so incompetent. Now he seemed to be having trouble with doing the task himself.

"Just apologise to her would you?" John sighed, fed up of seeing Sherlock twist a curl into place for the umpteenth time.

Sherlock gave him a 'you can't be serious' look.

"You're just nervous 'cause it's your first show back. It's understandable but these people are just trying to help you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped in defeat and John took that as a sign that he'd won either that or he couldn't be arsed to argue. John headed out of the room and in search of the hairstylist. He gave her a quick apology and asked if she'd come back in and help the clot out. She laughed a bit and genuinely seemed to like John. Sherlock on the other hand was on the receiving end of her hateful glares but Sherlock took it in his stride. Too damn proud to actually apologise to her in person. Now John could see why people didn't like working with him. He could be a bit of a tosser at times. She finished her work and left as quickly as possible, John couldn't blame her.

"Was that so difficult?" John snapped once the door clicked shut and they were alone again.

"Yes." Sherlock replied bluntly. "Oh, and she's married. So don't bother."

John raised his eyebrows, in bewilderment. "How did you-?"

"I saw the way you both glanced at each other through the mirror. I'm not blind, John" he interrupted.

"Jealous?" John smirked, leaning close to Sherlock and licking his lower lip suggestively.

"Yes." Sherlock stood abruptly for in front of the mirror and was now standing in front of John. Leaning a hand against the wall and examining John closely. "The slightest bit of attention you give to others sends me into a jealous frenzy, and there is nothing you can do to stop me from fucking you into this wall as punishment," Sherlock replied in his usual composed manner.

"Would you stop pissing about?" John chuckled, there was something about Sherlock's poker face that just made him want to giggle. He pushed him half-heartedly away. "You've got work to do."

Sherlock grinned and stepped back, chuckling along with John. The relaxed atmosphere between them soon tensed when Irene came into the room and announced the five minute call. Sherlock visibly tensed as soon as she'd left. John gave his best reassuring smile. "Don't worry, chéri. You'll be great."

Sherlock's head snapped up to look at him, a doubtful smile on his lips. "You've been listening to my French album."

John hadn't even realised he'd slipped in the French endearment. "It's catchy, alright..." John muttered defensively, shuffling his feet.

Sherlock chuckled, seeming pleased with himself. John was just happy he wasn't freaking out or doing a last minute runner for the door. If that meant John making himself look like a tit for Sherlock's amusement then so be it. Sherlock began humming one of his French songs, causing John's mind to wonder for a moment. Christ, the man sounded beautiful just fucking humming.

By the time his mind had cleared and he was back to reality, Sherlock was just about out the door and heading for the stage. "Break a leg" he called out. If the first song was anything to go by, he should really say break a hip.

Sherlock walked out onto the darkened stage but people could see the outline of his figure and began screaming their lungs out. John had to cover his hands over his ears at volume of his welcoming. It was intense and surreal. John stood at the edge of the stage watching as the lights began to come up and the show began.

* * *

The first song ended and before he knew it Sherlock was rushing past him and back into the changing room only to return moments later. John had to double take, he almost didn't recognise him. John was struggling to even begin to understand how Sherlock could still look gorgeous in something that, if anyone else was to wear it they would look ridiculous. He wore a pirate style white shirt, which exposed his neck and tucked in neatly to show off his small waist. Above this he wore a stunning waistcoat with tails, dark navy with silver trimming. He left this unbuttoned to expose the shirt beneath. With this he wore thick black…fucking hell was he wearing tights? Above this he had simple but smart silver shoes. His hair was unruly and curly and resting above a pair of thin metal framed, circular glasses. Not far off ones Harry Potter wears…but more stylish of course.

He looked Sherlock over in the few seconds he had before he had to go back on stage. Sherlock slapped his back with the biggest grin John had ever seen the man wear and said, "Remember, you need to leave after this."

John frowned, he'd completely forgotten he was supposed to be doing a job. Too fucking enthralled in the musical genius' web to realise the real reason he was here. Still, at least he got to listen to Sherlock one more time before he left. He stood back by the side of the stage and waited as Sherlock and his dancers got into position.

* * *

The lights were off and Sherlock played a sweet high pitched tune, slow and innocent to the darkness. Murmurs could be heard in the audience in anticipation. A soft spotlight fell over Sherlock, illuminating his glorious figure as he continued to play the acquitted melody. The audiences enthusiasm increased as it was revealed to them Sherlock was equipped with his beloved violin.

Sherlock continued to play as a thin layer of smoke fell over the stage, covering the ground about as high as his ankles. Only two of the eight dancers in Sherlock's group appeared in this song. One male and one female. The woman wore a sequined, silver corset styled dress which framed her curves beautifully. Jet black heels and bold mascara to highlight her piecing blue eyes. Her wavy brunette hair lay against one shoulder, contrasting with her radiant porcelain skin. Her blood stained lips pout seductively as she circles Sherlock, her dress glistening as the light hits the sequins at certain angels.

The male dancer soon appeared, in what appears to be a sort of Moulin Rouge themed affair. He is dressed in black trousers, shoes and suspenders that lie against his bare, tanned skin. His short hair accompanied by a bowler hat angled on one side of his head. His outfit has clearly been designed in contrast with hers.

She stopped circling Sherlock, enticed by the new comer, circling him instead. Both mere inches from the other's face, enticed by each other's eyes. The music is tenser and every note hangs heavy in suspense. The male dancer grasped the woman by the wrist and spins her into his arms, wrapping his arms protectively around her. The couple begin to dance in a sort of freestyle tango. Passion enchanting them as they dance across the stage. Keeping their bodies close together at all times.

Sherlock is still stood in the centre of the stage as the couple danced around him. His eyes are closed and his body moves fluidly as he strokes the bow across the strings of his violin. The music is a mixture of vulnerability, anger, lust and betrayal each time it changes the dances reciprocate in turn. Showing how their relationship changes through the rhythmic beat. The whole performance is a simplistic concept but is very intense and overwhelming. John can only stand in awe as the instrumental continued.

Sherlock suddenly springs into action, picking up speed as he draws to the finale. The couple have reached their peak what was once love is now bitter and empty. Her sorrows and hurt pour from the elegant motions as she begins to circle Sherlock again. This into contrast with the male's possessive streak and authority drown her, clasping at her until she is overpowered. His arm around her waist, her thigh held in place for her leg to drape around his side. Their foreheads together. She is defeated as dominance rises from him. Sherlock's quick motions soon draw to a close with one last long stroke of the strings, drawing out the last note. The lights fade and the crowd erupt in to applause.

John stands at the side, his mouth agape. He isn't even sure he can articulate what he just watched. How easily Sherlock's style can change, from some swinging 60's number to…that. It was fucking beautiful and it took all of John's strength to tear himself away. He, unfortunately, had a job to do.

* * *

**I know this is short but it just needed to be done. The dance number/violin style is based on the Roxanne number in the film Moulin Rouge. I hope it made sense, it's not as easy as it looks to write about dancing but I gave it a shot. Let me know what you guys think. Again, thanks for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

John reluctantly spent the rest of the evening gathering some peculiar items for Sherlock. He didn't want to leave, not after hearing Sherlock play such beautiful music. He wasn't even aware the man could play the violin. John had classed Sherlock as a guitar and song man. Oh, how wrong John had been. He took out his phone and checked his messages:

Massage oil, peppermint tea, three sets of handcuffs and knitting needles. SH

John was thankful that the majority of the items Sherlock requested made sense. He didn't want another egg fiasco. That seemed like such a long time ago. It was odd to think it'd only been about a week. John laughed at the thought that Sherlock used to act like that arrogant sod that had hit him with his car. It was almost concerning how easily John had managed to change him, to feel comfortable around him. He supposed no one really ever treated him like another human being. Just trying to see the pop star and not interested in what was underneath. It made John feel sick the way Sherlock was treated. No wonder he felt the need to do such extravagant things. It seemed more like a cry for help rather than being another everyday typical loon.

John came home from shopping, lifting the bag up onto the counter as he put away the tea. Adam was sat at the island in the kitchen, eating pizza straight from the box with a gloomy expression on his face.

"You okay there, Adam?" John asked, trying to catch the other's eyes.

Adam nodded wearily, "Yeah, just bummed Matt is gone."

John frowned, he'd been so busy dealing with Sherlock he hadn't even realised Matt hadn't been around. "Oh?" John replied, not quite sure what he could say.

"Yeah, moved in with his girlfriend couple days ago," he explained.

John felt sorry for Adam, now his friend was gone but couldn't help but mentally cheer in celebration. No more 'jamming sessions' at three in the morning, he thought. John also felt the need to laugh, since when could either of these guys get a girlfriend? They hardly ever left the house let alone talk to people. John just shook his head in disbelief.

There was a knock on the door, John sighed and went to open it only to be pushed back into a tight embrace by Sherlock. John's eyes went wide as he struggled to breath in Sherlock's suffocating hug. Sherlock spun John around in the hug so he could get past him and put him back down, walking into the room and leaving John to stand blinking at the empty doorway where Sherlock had just been. John shook his head and closed the door, following Sherlock back into the kitchen.

"You're in a good mood," John smiled. Sherlock's cheeriness was infectious.

"And why shouldn't I be?" he grinned, strolling into the kitchen. After the long gig, Sherlock was back into his casual attire. Dark grey jeans, converses and a heather grey t-shirt with an illustration of a skull printed faintly in black on the front. When John looked carefully enough, the skull was made up of naked women. John rolled his eyes, only Sherlock, he thought.

Sherlock ignored John's stare and walked straight up to Adam. Grabbing Adam's wrists, he pulled him forward to place both of his hands on Adam's cheeks and planted a kiss to his lips with a loud _mwah_ sound. "God, I feel fantastic." Sherlock announced, releasing his hold on Adam.

John stood on the other side of the island, wide-eyed and taken back by Sherlock's actions. Adam, for his part, didn't seem to freak out. This was a small blessing in itself. He simply slipped of his stool, giving Sherlock a small polite smile and hurried off into his bedroom. Not sparing John a glance.

Once the door to Adam's bedroom clicked shut John turned back to look at Sherlock.

"What the hell was that?" John puzzled, with an amused smile.

"Kinder than asking him to leave," Sherlock shrugged. He leaned over the counter to meet centimetres away from John's face. "Why, jealous?" he purred, amusement evident in his voice.

John snorted and let out a laugh, "You wish. Tea?"

Sherlock nodded, coming to sit on one of the stools. Looking very relaxed and at home.

John turned on the kettle and fished out the peppermint tea from the cupboard. "I'm taking it tonight was a success?" he asked with a large grin.

"John, it was incredible. It feels so good to be back. That buzz, that energy an audience can bring to a performance…" he smiled, he'd never felt so alive. "….It's indescribable."

John poured two cups of peppermint tea, adding a dash of milk to his. He handed one of the cups over to Sherlock and came and sat around the island opposite him. They sat in silence, only the sipping of tea and content sighs could be heard.

"What did you think of the second performance?" Sherlock asked after he'd drunk half his tea.

"Are you really going to make me watch only one a night? I don't think I can take much more of this," he complained. If it were up to John he'd probably be in the crowd with the rest of the maniacs cheering Sherlock on.

Sherlock chuckled, "Afraid so. I have the media to overview my performance. What I need is someone to criticise them individually, tell me where to improve. The DVD recording must be perfect."

John was going to protest but Sherlock had a point, John would be watching every night. The DVD recording wasn't until the last two nights of the tour at the O2. By then John would be able to pinpoint Sherlock's highs and lows and tell him what to alter.

"I thought it was better than the first one, much more passionate. More you." John tried to explain. He thought it was much better than how he described it but didn't have the words to express how much he loved it. "I'd say you should open with it but I suppose the energy in the first one is great way to get the audience raring to go," he mused.

Sherlock seemed pleased with his answer and continued drinking his tea.

"Although, I can't figure out for the life of me why you wore those glasses."

Sherlock seemed a bit lost, confusion crossing his face. "I need them to see," he stated, looking at John liked he'd just been hit by a car. Which was ironic considering Sherlock couldn't give a shit when John was actually hit by a car, and his car at that.

"You're shitting me." John's mouth hung open in astonishment. John thought they were just a fashion statement. As gorgeous as the fucking loon looked in them, he would never have put Sherlock down as a glasses person. "But I've never seen you wear glasses."

"I wear contacts, better for pictures. The flash on cameras just causes a glare," he explained.

"So those ones yesterday…"

"Yes. They're my glasses." Sherlock interrupted with a nod.

"Well. Looks like I've found you a new nickname, Potter." John grinned

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "How creative of you."

"Will you put them on?" John asked with an enthusiastic smile.

"Just so I can be tormented by Draco over here? I think I'll pass." Sherlock said dryly.

"Don't be daft. They look good on you. Honestly." John assured.

Sherlock was hesitant, no one liked his glasses. Especially at school, they thought he looked too geeky and was bullied quite a bit for it. The only reason he can get away with them from time to time now is because he is famous. No one can really question him with it now. They'd just shrug and say 'It's Sherlock Holmes' and that would be argument enough. Sherlock reached into his jeans, picking out a small case. Placing it on the table, he carefully pulled out his contacts and placed them in their container. He took out his metal framed glasses and hooked them behind his ears, resting them on his nose. His unruly curls hung against the top of the frames loosely.

John grinned, looking over the transformation. They certainly helped to frame Sherlock's face and they managed to bring out his eyes more than ever. God, those eyes. B&Q would have a fucking field day trying to come up with a name for the colour of those eyes. "Parfait" John smiled in his best French accent.

Sherlock gave a small shy smile, a faint blush colouring his pale cheeks. Fucking hell, John thought. Sherlock's glasses made him seem uncertain and timid. Certainly two things you would not use to describe Sherlock bloody Holmes. If it were possible, this side of Sherlock made John warm up to the man ever more. As if his pure talent wasn't enough. Which in John's eyes wasn't, he wanted more. The thought startled John, he hadn't even realised how much he wanted Sherlock before it hit him so suddenly.

Shit. This would not end well. Okay John, he told himself. Just keep it together, stay professional. It's just Sherlock without contacts. You're not slutting yourself up over a pair of fucking glasses. He picked up his tea and continued drinking.

Sherlock pushed his glasses up his nose, getting used to the feel of them again. Besides the show, he hadn't worn them since rehab. They wouldn't allow him to wear contacts in rehab, in case they were laced with something. It made sense but it only caused people to make fun of him. He felt like he was back at school. It was horrible, but John hadn't laughed. In fact he'd ensured Sherlock wore them. He felt comfortable here with John, he didn't judge him. He just allowed him to live like anyone else would and didn't make a big fuss of his day job, as it were. John was good company and was someone who Sherlock had wished was there in the earlier days when things started going wrong. He could have really used a friend like John. He finished the remains of his tea and took his and John's cup to the sink and washed them out. A small way of showing John how much he appreciated him.

John raised an eyebrow. Was Sherlock cleaning? Fuck, now he'd seen everything. He followed Sherlock into his bedroom, bringing the rest of the shopping with him. He put the hand cuffs with the pair he already owned, being rewarded with a smile from Sherlock. "Good. Did you get the massage oil too?"

"Yeah, hang on." John pulled out a bottle of massage oil and put it down on the bedside table, next to the handcuffs. John had to repress a nervous giggle. If someone walked in they would certainly get the wrong impression. Although- No, no. Not happening. Stop that train of thought right now. This is a professional environment…sort of. John told himself. You are his friend. Keep things to idiotic flirtation. It seems to work, keeps Sherlock in a good mood. Doing other things with him will only end badly. Once the job is done, then maybe…

John let out a sigh, who was he kidding? That would never happen. He took up his place like the night before, sat on the edge of the bed and leant against the wall. Sherlock's feet in his lap. He rolled his eyes when Sherlock hadn't even bothered to take his shoes off and began untying the laces. "It's like dealing with a child," he muttered.

"I certainly hope not, wouldn't want you done for paedophilia" Sherlock commented with a sly grin.

John rolled his eyes and threw off his shoes and socks and began massaging the musician's feet. He was rewarded with a low throaty moan. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his head pushed back into the pillow.

"I take it there are more dance numbers to come?" John investigated.

Sherlock smirked, "Nice try. You're just going to have to wait and see."

John made a whining noise in complaint, "You're no fun."

Sherlock chuckled as John continued to rub his feet. John looked over at Sherlock's t-shirt. The naked women skull staring back at him. "What's the deal with that anyway? Another 'Fuck you, I do what I want'?"

Sherlock looked down at his top and began laughing, "Not quite. This is from one of Salvador Dali's paintings, my dear."

"Oh," John blushed feeling a little foolish. He was never a big fan for the arts. All through university he was either getting pissed or working in medicine, art never really came into the picture. He was a bit embarrassed not to know this stuff. He felt like he should know this stuff, not disappoint Sherlock through his lack of knowledge.

"It's alright, John. This shirt is more interesting off anyway," he winked, pulling his top over his head.

John blinked at Sherlock as he discarded of his shirt. He took off his glasses and placed them on the bedside table. John was still trying to work out what was going on until a bottle of massage oil was shoved in his direction. Through a bit of shuffling around, John was sat on his knees by Sherlock's side. Sherlock was lying on his stomach with his head lying against his crossed arms.

John poured some oil into his hands, rubbing them together to warm them up. He then began at Sherlock's shoulders, kneading his hands into his right shoulder. Sherlock exhaled deeply, letting the tension drain away as John's hands went to work.

As John made his way down Sherlock's back, Sherlock let out the odd moan and sigh here and there. Until John began massaging between the two shoulder blades. Sherlock let out a loud, satisfying moan.

"You are truly wasted as a singer, y'know that?" John answered once Sherlock stopped making such fantastic noises with his mouth. "There's much more money in pornography," he quipped.

Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder with a teasing grin, "Who is to say I haven't done pornography?"

John stopped what he was doing and stared at Sherlock with wide eyes, "You're fucking with me."

"Nope. Not yet anyway," Sherlock winked.

"You're an arse." John rolled his eyes and continued to massage Sherlock.

"You wouldn't have me any other way, sweetheart," he teased, turn back around to lean his head in his arms.

John just shook his head, he hated when Sherlock was right.

* * *

John awoke to something in his hair, he grimaced and swatted a hand up to get rid of it only to have his wrist caught by Sherlock's hand.

"What the hell?" he muttered, his voice coarse from sleep.

"Shh, it's okay. Go back to sleep," Sherlock crooned in his usual low, deep voice.

This only caused John to question this situation even more. He tilted his head upwards to find Sherlock looking down at him with a warm smile and stroking his hair. He was sat cross legged with John's head in his lap.

"What are you doing?" he asked sleepily. It was still dark outside. How long had Sherlock been awake? Why was he stroking John's hair like a fucking cat? Although he had to admit it was soothing.

"You had a nightmare. Go back to sleep." Sherlock said, his voice soothing and soft. The moonlight seeped through the edge of the curtains, slicing into the dark room and illuminating Sherlock's figure. The metal of his glasses reflecting the light, highlighting his eyes the most. His curls drooping as Sherlock's head was bowed to look down at John. To put it simply, from where John was looking: He was fucking beautiful. John was going to argue with Sherlock but he found sleep dragging him back under. His eye lids were heavy and the soothing motion of Sherlock's hand in his hair drifted him back to sleep.

Sherlock eased a little as John fell back into a peaceful slumber. He'd been so worried earlier, John was tossing and turning in his sleep. He woke up screaming, going back into a seemingly calm sleep but Sherlock wanted to keep an eye on him. He wanted to make sure he would be okay, it wouldn't do for John to be tired tomorrow. That's when it hit Sherlock. They were in the same bed, exhaustion had both taken them and they fell asleep. No problems there. What did cause Sherlock bother, however, was how much sharing a bed with John didn't bother him.

John was kind and considerate, he treated Sherlock like he was just a regular guy. He wasn't afraid to say what he thought. Not just another 'yes man' Sherlock was up to his neck in them. He also wasn't just another quick fuck. Neither was he somebody trying to suck up to Sherlock to get into cool clubs or get free stuff. He wasn't anything Sherlock had ever met in this business. He was a friend…

* * *

The next morning Sherlock awoke to an empty space next to him where John should be. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and stretching out his back. He felt amazing. The adrenaline rush from yesterday had worn off and thanks to John's massage his body wasn't stiff. He felt warm, comfortable and ready to start the day.

He put his glasses back on and walked into the kitchen in just his jeans, leaving his top on the floor from where it was last night. "Morning, puddin' pie," Sherlock quipped, wrapping his arms around John's waist and nuzzling his face into the other's neck.

"Here I was thinking we might have a civilised morning," John snorted, he would never tire of Sherlock's behaviour.

"I'll have you know I am a very matu- Oh, John. Is that bacon?"

John laughed and shook his head. "Idiot," he muttered under his breath. He made them both a bacon sandwich and a cup of coffee. He handed Sherlock his cup and plate.

"Thanks sweet pea," Sherlock answered as he took his breakfast with a bright smile.

"No problem, princess" John retorted with a roll of his eyes.

They sat on opposite sides of the island, Sherlock had borrowed John's laptop and was looking through all the comments, tweets and reviews from last night's show. If it were possible, his grin grew even further. John brought his cup of coffee and came and stood behind Sherlock, looking over his shoulder.

Tweets tagged #SherlockHolmes

OMG! SH was soo good tonite! #thanksbecca #SherlockHolmes

Sherlock Holmes has certainly made a great return, for those with the misfortune to not have tickets to this genius' work. Check out his website to book yours now… you will not regret it. . #SherlockHolmes

Swiss fucking cheese, I still can't believe I met this bad boy last night! #SherlockHolmes #bestnightofmylife sherlockholmes

This guy sucked dicks…he prances around the stage like he is god. What a douche. #Iwantmymoneyback #SherlockHolmes

His violin playing brought tears to my eyes. Such a talented man. Well played, sir. #SherlockHolmes

This guy is the shit. His show just blew me away. #SherlockHolmes #suchahottie

Did you guys see Sherlock Holmes last nite?! OMFG with the fire! Amazing! #SherlockHolmes #isthereanythingthatmancantdo #sherlockhomlestour

Articles tagged: Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes has certainly blown our expectations out of the water. Last night the ex-junkie pop-star, Sherlock Holmes, began his first night back on the stage after battling with his drug and alcohol addiction. Needless to say, we all had our doubts. Very few stars ever make it back on top once they hit the bottom of a bottle. However, like he is in so many other ways, Sherlock is the exception to this rule. Last night was yet another example of just how talent Sherlock Holmes can be. His energy and enthusiasm is one to be envied and his stamina is something all women would desire in their partners (especially with leather trousers like those. Yum!). His performances were, as always, a fair mixture ranging from classical to rock. The visual performances were perhaps a little over the top but everything is given with 110%. The performers are well-rehearsed and work well in contrast with the raw and free spirit that is Sherlock Holmes. I would sincerely suggest that those who have not seen this man perform go see this show. Those who have seen him before, you must see him again because this is nothing like you have ever experienced.

**By Molly Hooper**

John read some of the tweets over Sherlock's shoulder, "Wow. Now I definitely can't wait to see the rest of the show."

Sherlock chuckled, "Just be patient John." He turned off the laptop, clearly very happy with the results. He stood up, taking John's coffee from him and placing it on the counter. He then pulled John into a hug, a lot gentler than the one the previous evening. John wasn't sure if he could even call that a hug, more of a man handling. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, relieved the day's reviews weren't going to spoil the musician's work tonight.

"Sherlock, what you did last night…" John began awkwardly.

"Think nothing of it, John. I was just trying to help you sleep," Sherlock interrupted.

"I just wanted to thank you," John continued despite Sherlock's protests.

"No problem, honey bunch," Sherlock smirked.

John laughed, pushing Sherlock out of the embrace. He traced a finger over Sherlock's glasses briefly. "Come on, Velma. You've got work to do."

* * *

After spending half an hour fighting with Sherlock to get his top back on him and refuse his offer of sex, yet again, they finally managed to get out of the flat and across town. This morning Sherlock was due for an interview and photo shoot with Buzz Magazine. John had his notebook in hand, trailing through all the paperwork.

"Okay, 10:30 Buzz interview then it's off to Channel 4 to record your interview with T4 at 2:00 so please, for God's sake Sherlock don't piss these people off. I know you're famous but punctuality is key, alright. I don't want you turning up at Channel 4 any later than 2:05, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Sherlock saluted with a devious smile.

"I'm serious. If you annoy one of the photographers and delay the shoot, it's my head that's for the chop."

"Oh, my. We wouldn't want that. Not that precious face of yours," Sherlock smirked, tracing a finger over John's jaw.

"Sherlock," John warned, trying to ignore the tingling sensation that travelled down his spine as Sherlock touched him so delicately.

"Yes. Yes, I understand. I shall be on my best behaviour," Sherlock promised, although don't hold your breath.

"Alright, just wait here." John walked into the building, Sherlock following behind him but hanging back. John walked up to the reception and told them Sherlock Holmes was here. The receptionist twirled her hair, smiling brightly and looking over in Sherlock's direction. She pointed them in the right direction, her eyes never leaving Sherlock. John rolled his eyes and thanked her, leading Sherlock to the right room.

Once they got there a young woman in a teal coloured dress and black high heels trotted over to them. She wore her red hair in a high pony tail and a bright smile. "Hello, my name is Natasha. I'm the photographer. We have two hours to get this right. Don't try anything stupid I'm not in the mood for your shit, Mr Holmes. What we're going for here is a black and white shoot. Wet shirt, clinging hair something that'll make our readers coffee breaks a little more interesting. Keep the glasses I think I can work with them. Any questions?" She spoke quickly and with a friendly yet professional tone. John was impressed. It took courage to talk to people like that, however, it did get the job done quicker.

"Marry me?" Sherlock asked with a grin. It seemed he was impressed too.

Natasha rolled her eyes, "I doubt Mr Holmes would approve."

"I'm Mr Holmes," he corrected.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she snapped with an amused smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Ignore that old fart, my brother would never understand our love." He took her hand and began kissing up her arm playfully.

She chuckled, pushing him away. "God, you never change. I don't know how my aunt puts up with you."

"My good looks and charm?" he grinned playfully, wiggling his eyebrows.

Natasha rolled her eyes turning to look at John, "See what we've got to work with?"

John chuckled, trying not to think about this woman that had to put up with Sherlock. Who was she? Why had he never heard of her before? Oh God, they were sleeping in the same bed last night. If this woman found out she'd freak. Shit. "Yeah. He's a handful alright," John chipped in half-heartedly.

Sherlock was led over to get changed and Natasha directed John to an empty seat by her laptop. Once Sherlock returned, he was in a simple grey t-shirt and black skinny jeans. No shoes and his hair was as always, curly and messy. A combination that shouldn't be as sexy as John found it.

He stood in front of a white backdrop and a rain machine was set up above him. The water poured controllably, wetting his clothes so they stuck to him like a second skin. His hair drooping and sticking to his forehead and hanging limply over his glasses. The light was casted to highlight Sherlock's better features, his cheekbones and plump lips.

Sherlock was looking down at the floor, pushing a hand under his t-shirt when the camera began to flash. The images began popping up on the laptop next to John. John looked over them, black and white images of Sherlock. Although, it didn't look like the one everyone knew and loved. He looked vulnerable, shy, and exposed in these. John presumed it would help Sherlock to come across as a different person and not just that 'drug addict'. New show, new persona.

Sherlock was pulling different poses as the camera continued to click away. "John, pass me a fag," he called out, holding his hand out as he ran his other hand through his hair.

"We're in the middle of a shoot!" Natasha protested.

"Trust me doll face, this'll help," Sherlock said dryly as John handed him a cigarette before returning to his seat, ignoring Natasha's glare.

As it turned out, Sherlock was right. The smoke curled around him and worked well in contrast to the textures of his crumpled clothing. Especially in black and white, it made the images so much more dramatic, giving a much more dynamic atmosphere between the rebellious and vulnerable image that is, Sherlock Holmes.

Between Sherlock and Natasha, the shoot was complete in just over an hour. They worked really well, which was something that couldn't be easily said when talking about Sherlock and his co-workers. Sherlock went to get changed and Natasha came over to look through her work on the laptop.

"They look great," John complimented with a small smile.

"Hey thanks. God, I was so nervous. My aunt said he could be a right monkey at times. This is my job, y'know. I can't have him screwing up my career because he can't be arsed."

"You did great. You wouldn't mind sending us copies of the finals would you? I don't think Sherlock would be too pleased if he didn't get a say in what got printed," he asked writing out his e-mail address.

"Sure thing. Take this as well, I'm a freelance photographer. If you know of any work let me know," she smiled, handing him her card. She walked off to pack up her stuff. John slid the card into his notebook with the rest of the papers. He went in search of Sherlock who was now making his way towards him. He held out a pen and release form and asked him to sign it. He then gave the paper to Natasha and they made their way out of the building.

* * *

They decided to have lunch at Angelo's before heading off to Channel 4 seeing as they had finished earlier. They were seated at the window just like last time. John ordered the spaghetti carbonara and a coke whilst Sherlock ordered lentil soup and lemonade.

"So, Natasha…" John started after their food arrived.

"What about her?" Sherlock asked, dipping a roll into his soup.

"How do you know her?" John ventured, twirling his pasta with his fork.

"Her aunt, lovely woman,"

"Well who's her aunt?" John asked perhaps a bit too demanding. He sounded like a jealous housewife for Christ sake.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, picking up on John's tone. "Are you asking whether I have some form of romantic history with this woman?"

"No...I…that's not…maybe. Yes." John had turned a lovely shade of crimson. Sherlock mused with a chuckle how he'd been looking for a sofa in that colour.

"Then fret not. Her aunt is Mrs Hudson, my landlady."

"Oh fuck," John sighed, having put his foot in it again. "Sorry."

Sherlock chuckled and shrugged it off, "Good to know you care enough to ask."

"Of course I care," John blinked. Why would Sherlock think that he didn't care, they were friends weren't they?

Sherlock pushed his glasses up his nose, playing with his lower lip between his teeth. "Thank you, John," he said sincerely. It seemed like Sherlock was struggling with himself, like he couldn't process that someone actually cared for him.

John reached out his hand, resting it on top of Sherlock's causing the other to snap out of his dream like state and stare at their hands. "You're not going to cry, are you cupcake?" John teased, lightening the mood.

Sherlock snorted, and just like that they fell back into comfortable silence eating their lunch.

* * *

2:00 came all too soon for John, he'd been enjoying Sherlock's company and all too soon reality was dragging them down and sending them back to work. T4 is a programme broadcasted on Saturday and Sunday mornings showing the latest and upcoming events in the music and film industry as well as showing a variety of comedy based television shows such as 'The Big Bang Theory' and 'Scrubs'. The fact that John knew this sort of shows you how dull his life was before Sherlock came along.

They were shown to the studio and John went in search of coffee as Sherlock got set up with a microphone. When he came back he handed a cup to Sherlock who was in the process of being chatted up by the show's host, Sebastian. His hand was on Sherlock's knee and John was pretty sure if looks could kill he'd have lasers shooting out of his eyes right about now.

Sherlock seemed to pick up on the jealous look on John's face as he walked towards the sofa Sherlock was sitting on. He made a side note to question John about that look later. For now, he used it to his advantage to push away this ogre who thought it was perfectly acceptable to touch whom he pleased.

"Thanks, love," Sherlock smiled warmly, his fingers brushing against John's as he took the coffee. He looked up at John with his best loving look. It occurred to Sherlock that he didn't really need to try and act when it came to adoring John. It seemed to come naturally…Sherlock tried not to look too much into what that said and concentrated on the work.

John gave his warmest smile in return, his eyes darting down to Sherlock's knee. He saw Sebastian exchange a glance between John and Sherlock. He could literally hear a gear click into place in Sebastian's mind as he backed away from Sherlock. John mentally congratulated himself for getting a first grade prick away from Sherlock. He shared a small smile with Sherlock, which he'd taken as a wordless 'thank you'.

* * *

The show was short and sweet, thankfully. John was already beginning to tire, he wasn't sure how Sherlock had managed to do this every day. It was exhausting. They'd managed to escape after two hours and were now in Sherlock's car driving to the Apollo. Tonight was the last night before they drove off to Cambridge for the next gig. John was looking forward to seeing a bit of Britain. He hadn't really been anywhere except for London and that one time he was pissed and woke up in a train station in Cardiff.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and shifted his arse on the seat, pulling something out of his back pocket. He looked at the offending item with distaste before crumpling up the piece of paper and throwing it out the window.

John looked over with a raised eyebrow, Sherlock simply shrugged, "Sebastian."

"Ah," John nodded. A look of hatred evident on his face.

"Jealous?" Sherlock half joked.

"Course not. I know you'll always be faithful to me, love." John quipped.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Yes. About that, I just wanted to thank you…"

"That happens often, then? 'Cause I'm not being your boyfriend every time some annoying prick tries to chat you up," John interrupted a little too irritated.

"Would you rather be my husband?"

John laughed, "That's not what I meant."

Sherlock smirked, "Don't worry. I can usually handle it. It's just Sebastian…he can be a bit persistent."

"You've worked with him before?" John queried.

"Yes. He's also at most of the same social parties and all that pointless drivel." Sherlock waved a hand at the conversation and turned his head to look out the window.

"So if I'm your pretend husband…does that mean I get to see the rest of the show tonight?"

"Not even if you were my real husband. You're going to have to wait."

"Wow, you're hard work," John pouted, he really wanted to see this show. Now.

"I'm worth it," Sherlock grinned playfully.

John smiled to himself. Yes, he certainly was that.

* * *

The evening rolled in and hundreds of fans were filling the arena to see Sherlock perform. Lucky bastards, John thought to himself as he sat in an armchair flicking through his notebook. He was on the phone to The Varsity Hotel in Cambridge. Sherlock thought it would be absolutely hilarious to try and irritate John in the proceedings.

"Yeah, we should be there about 3am. That's not going to be a problem is it?" John asked whilst Sherlock poked John's side, causing his voice to squeak down the phone. He managed to push Sherlock away with his foot whilst he wrote down the name of the person who would be there to greet them. "That's great, thanks." He hung up the phone and threw the pillow he was lying on at Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked, dodging the flying object easily. "You have a telephone voice."

"I do not," John scoffed, crossing his arms.

"I'm afraid you do, my dear." Sherlock stood up straight and did his best impression of John, "That's not going to be a problem is it?"

John snorted out a laugh, "Fuck off. I don't sound anything like that!"

Sherlock –who was already kitted out in his first costume – walked up to John with a devilish smile. He took the book from John's hand and dumped it on the dressing table. He easily came and sat on John's lap, knees either side of John's thighs. "I bet you have a sex voice too," he purred, with a deep chuckle.

John rolled his eyes, ignoring how close Sherlock was. He could feel the heat of the other man pressed against his thighs, it took all his strength not to wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist and hold him close. "You have a singing voice. Would you mind getting off me and using it?"

"No but I'd rather get you off," Sherlock smirked, he wasn't even sure if he was still playing a game anymore. He was in dangerous territory. Yet he couldn't help but lean towards John as each word escaped his lips.

John had to bit his lip, was this…was this still a test? John was struggling to think straight with Sherlock so close. Sherlock froze for a moment, his features softening as he brought a hand up to cup John's cheek.

"S-Sher...What is this?" he dared to ask. Probably just another one of his games but something about Sherlock's expression looked lost, vulnerable even. This wasn't how Sherlock joked, his gesture seemed almost sincere.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly, feeling the light stubble on John's jaw under his thumb. He'd never felt like this before. All the times he'd messed about with John, tested him. John would always push back, challenge him. It was easy. His company was enjoyable. Yet there was something else, Sherlock had ignored it before. It was something he couldn't understand, he'd never really experienced friendship before. Besides what little compassion Sherlock showed towards Irene, Sherlock had never really cared about anyone before. Not properly at least. He'd pretend for the purposes of gaining benefits out of the exchange, whether it was sex or work but this…this was new.

When John reached out a hand to cover his, Sherlock let out a shuddery breath. John seemed to understand, he gave Sherlock a small smile and Sherlock knew everything would be okay. He was suddenly aware of how close he was to John. It didn't matter when Sherlock had been joking but now, it felt personal. More intimate, the feeling was alien to Sherlock and he wasn't sure what to do or how to process it. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting down to John's lips briefly before looking back up into those patient blue eyes.

He removed himself from John's lap, and bowed slightly as he lowered his head to reach out for John's hand and kiss the knuckles tentatively. "As much as it pains me to say it, you have to leave after the third act."

John swallowed, grateful Sherlock had decided to leave whatever it was that had just happened to the side for now and focus on the work. John needed some breathing space to clear his mind.

"What no curtsy? Sherlock how do you ever expect to snatch up a prince with manners like that?" John joked defusing the tension, letting Sherlock know things didn't have to become awkward… no matter how surreal John was finding all this himself.

Sherlock laughed and gave a timid curtsy. "Wouldn't want to displease my prince."

"If you didn't want that, you'd let me see the whole show," John muttered.

"Who said you were my prince?" Sherlock smirked, "Maybe you're still a frog waiting to be kissed."

"Then I guess I'll wait." John gave a small smile and stood up to open the door for Sherlock. "Good luck, Princess."

Sherlock grinned, his hand resting on John's arm briefly before walking out the dressing room and addressing his adoring crowd. John closed the door behind him and slid down it and onto the floor, holding his head in his hands. He'd done the one thing he told himself not to do: Fall for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**Phew, that was long. Sorry this took ages but I've been away so didn't have time to write. Hopefully this chapter made up for it a bit. As you can see, I am a bitch and am dragging out their relationship a little bit longer...but bare with me it'll get there. Eventually. You're comments are always welcome. And as ever, thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

John didn't bother seeing the first act. Sherlock's hypnotising hips would not help him to think properly at the moment. Sherlock had - they nearly…shit. This wasn't good. Was it? Why wasn't it? They both cared for each other, that much was evident in the way Sherlock touched him. He was gentle and careful, like John was made of glass. He was almost hesitant. John began to wonder if he'd ever done this before. He wasn't exactly a virgin, that much was clear. But there was a difference between fucking and…this.

John sighed, this was a mess. He'd fallen for Sherlock. This was supposed to be about the work. Sherlock had made that much obvious. So what had happened, had he changed his mind? John wasn't sure whether he could go through this. This was Sherlock's come back tour, he needed this. And if John's suspicions were correct, dealing with these new emotions would not benefit Sherlock at all. He needed to keep him focused on his work and maybe, just maybe after the tour they could try exploring these feelings.

Right, okay. John straightened in his chair and nodded to himself. Keep to the work, he told himself.

These orders he'd given himself, however, dissolved as soon as a certain musician walked through the door. Sherlock had already stripped of his shirt as he walked through the door, changing for the second act. John looked around and picked up Sherlock's violin, holding it ready for the singer to dash back on stage.

Sherlock had peeled out his contacts and slipped on his glasses, blinking for a moment, adjusting his focus. He ran a hand through his hair, causing his hair to stick in every direction. Looking unruly and unbelievably fucking gorgeous. Sherlock was distracted and not concentrating on John at all. John was a bit disappointed but didn't take it personally. This was Sherlock's job, he needed to remember that.

Sherlock reached out for his beloved violin, his fingers brushing over John's briefly. He pushed the tingling sensation that flowed through him aside, he couldn't think about this. Not now, he had his work to concentrate on. He couldn't do both.

"Get the third act ready, would you?" Sherlock asked, pointing to the clothes hanging on the rack in the corner. John nodded, incapable of speech. Sherlock gave a small smile and was back out the door. The screams blasting full force as the door opened. John almost fell over at the volume of it.

He closed the door and headed for the clothes. Each was marked with the according songs. John was tempted to see what else he had waiting in store for him but thought against it. Sherlock wanted him to wait.

He picked up the hanger marked: #3. He took out the shoes and clothes and placed them out on the dresser and chair so Sherlock could easily switch costumes without much fuss. John must have been in his own little world because it wasn't long until Sherlock was back.

Sherlock thrust the violin in John's direction and stripped of his pirate boots and waistcoat. John put the violin away and looked around the room looking for the next instrument Sherlock needed but couldn't find one. He turned back to ask Sherlock but stopped, letting his jaw hang loose at the sight of the singer.

He was still wearing what John was pretty sure were black tights. He'd replaced his pirate boots with silver shoes that pointed at the end. Tiny bits of glitter were sprinkled in the shoe so they sparkled when the light it just right. His glasses were gone, and he had a dark grey scrap of fabric tied around his forehead, the ends of which draped over one shoulder. His hair was still a curly mess which sat against his forehead, slightly damp with sweat. He wore a tight-fitted black military jacket with gold trimming and buttons, which he wore above a long plain black t-shirt. A large red band of fabric wrapped around his small waist, the tail ends of which, fluttered as he moved around the room.

John snapped out of his dream-like state, suddenly realising Sherlock was looking for something. "What do you need?" he chipped in instantly, looking around the room.

"Guitar, ESP LTD V-50. White." Sherlock muttered, panic rising in his voice. He couldn't keep the audience waiting for too long.

John looked under the desk before finding it between the chair he'd been sitting in and the wall. He handed it wordlessly over to Sherlock, still eyeing him up. It was ridiculous how gorgeous this man could look in anything. "Prince Charming, indeed." John chuckled softly to himself as Sherlock left, once again reminding him to leave after this song.

John followed him and stood by the edge of the stage, waiting for what this brilliant man had in store next.

* * *

The crowd went ape shit when the lights fell and a lone figure came to the centre of the stage. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. He would never tire of the sound of admiration and applause. The spotlight slowly lit Sherlock as the faint sound of his guitar began to echo through the sudden silence. The melody was light and repetitive. Sherlock's voice came out as a soft whisper as he sang into the microphone strapped to his cheek. His movements were limited to his arm plucking carefully at the strings.

Change everything you are  
And everything you were  
Your number has been called

The music rose in volume, the faint clang of symbols could be heard over the bass which joined in time with Sherlock's beat. Red light filled the stage as dancers began to join Sherlock on stage.

Fights and battles have begun  
Revenge will surely come  
Your hard times are ahead

The female dancers wore black dresses that trailed along the floor. From the waist down, the black fabric washed-out into a fiery red which petered out into oranges and yellows along the ends of the dress. The fabric was loose and flowed magnificently as the dancers twirled around the stage. The men wore similar themed attire, black skinny jeans, black shirt and a faint gold coloured waistcoat.

As the dancers took to their pairs and danced around the stage, Sherlock began to move to the centre of the stage. Wiggling those hips of his as he did so, causing John's mouth to do dry. A small circle podium arose from the stage, bringing Sherlock up and above the stage. He stood carefully in the middle and continued to play. The beat building up and his voice creeping up to a loud volume.

Best,  
You've got to be the best  
You've got to change the world  
And use this chance to be heard  
Your time is now

The music suddenly burst into life, drums kicking in up the beat and the bass pumping along. Flames spurted out from the edge of the podium, surrounding Sherlock in fire. He looked wild and dangerous, manically playing out a guitar solo before bursting into life and singing his lungs out. The crowd drank in every minute of it, a few gasps came when the fire broke out. Certainly something John wasn't expecting…which was rich given this was Sherlock bloody Holmes they were talking about.

Change everything you are  
And everything you were  
Your number has been called  
Fights and battles have begun  
Revenge will surely come  
Your hard times are ahead

Best,  
You've got to be the best  
You've got to change the world  
And use this chance to be heard  
Your time is now

John stood in awe as Sherlock belted out every note, pouring his heart and soul into the lyrics. The music petered out and the stage went black. The ring of fire the only thing illuminating the stage. The dancers had frozen were they stood mid-pose. Sherlock could be seen in the middle of the fire podium, hands in the air as he suddenly began to float. He remained in the fire circle hovering like some kind of fucking rock angel. He began to sing again, his voice once again soft and gentle as the dancers began dancing in slow motion in beat to Sherlock's slow singing.

Don't let yourself down  
Don't let yourself go  
Your last chance has arrived

His silhouetted figure faded as the lights came back up and the music kicked back in. He swung his arm against the strings, manically lifting the beat. His voice once again loud and teeming with emotion.

Best,  
You've got to be the best  
You've got to change the world  
And use this chance to be heard  
Your time is now

The music died and the lights cut to black and as always, the crowd went ape shit and John was left with the disappointing crushed feeling that he wasn't allowed to see the rest of the show.

* * *

John had gone home, shoved some clothes and handcuffs in a bag. Though he wasn't sure Sherlock would be needing them it was better to be safe than sorry. He headed back to the Apollo after the gig. He was watching Sherlock interact with some of his fans backstage as the crew were packing the set away, ready to hit the road. He looked so different when addressing his fans. He was happy, smiling away but it didn't seem real. Not to John, he knew what Sherlock was really like and that fact sent a burst of warmth travelling through his chest.

He hung back, waiting for the giggling girls to step away before approaching Sherlock. "Ready to go?" he asked with a small smile. They hadn't spoken since earlier. He wasn't quite sure how Sherlock wanted to play this out. He looked exhausted. Maybe they'd just forget about it for now.

Sherlock nodded, running a hand through his hair. He'd changed back into his usual attire, jeans and t-shirt. He wasn't wearing his glasses thought. John was a bit upset. He thought Sherlock looked amazing in frames. They walked out to the car waiting for them.

Sherlock got into the car with a sigh, glad to be off his feet.

"Tuckered out, princess?" John smirked, getting in the other side of the car.

"Being royalty is such hard work," he muttered, with a smile.

The car began to move as they began the two hour drive to Cambridge. Sherlock was grateful for the divider in the car and the tinted windows. He'd had his picture taken enough times for one day. He sat back in his seat, lolling his head to side to look over at John.

John looked over at him a little nervously. "I hope you don't mind, I booked the room for us to share. It's just after this week, staying in my room I just figured you'd want the same sort of thing…in case something happens." He felt bad, he should have asked but Sherlock had enough on his plate he didn't want to bother him. Now it sounded like he was accusing him of going back on the smack. That's not what he meant by it at all.

Sherlock didn't seem offended at all, he just smiled and said, "You just can't keep away can you?"

John let out a breath in relief. "How could I resist?" he grinned.

Sherlock smiled, reaching out a hand stroke John's cheek. "Mon cher, doux, John. Les mots ne peuvent exprimer à quel point tu es belle."

John licked his lower lip subconsciously, "Unless you want to be fucked in the back of a moving car, I'd suggest you stop that right now." John half joked.

Sherlock grinned, a small blush tinting his pale cheeks pink. "What if I had just called you a whore?"

"Then I guess fucking you in the back of a car would just be the proof," he smirked.

They both chuckled, Sherlock's hand still brushing John's cheek. "What are we going to do?" John asked quietly, reading Sherlock's expression. He looked as lost as John was feeling.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. This was all very new to him. He cared for John very much but his work was everything to him. He'd never felt this compassionate towards another being before. He couldn't risk ruining his career over this, the press would just eat him up. Maybe if he just got through the tour and thought it through from there. He could put this aside for a few months, couldn't he?

John's arm had wrapped around him, pulling him a little closer. He was warm and solid. Sherlock felt safe with John. He leant his head against John's chest, closing his eyes for a moment. "My work…"

"…I know. Its okay, Sherlock," John interrupted, squeezing Sherlock's arm lightly. "I understand."

Sherlock seemed to relax a little after that. John couldn't see his face, just a heap of curls. He was pretty sure the singer had fallen asleep. He smiled to himself, holding Sherlock close. John was still uncertain what the musician expected of him but if Sherlock just wanted to be friends, he was fine with that. As long as he could stick around in this maniac's life a little longer, he'd be happy.

* * *

**Okay so after the last chapter this one seems a bit pointless but it's getting there. Thank you so much to all that have commented, followed or favourited this story I cannot tell you how happy that makes me. If anyone wants to see something in particular happen let me know, I'm open to ideas. Thanks for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

John must have fallen asleep too because when he awoke they were outside The Varsity Hotel. He grumbled something incoherent. He could feel something warm and heavy pressed against his chest. He looked down to see Sherlock still sound asleep. John smiled warmly, running a hand gently through Sherlock's curly hair.

John shook him gently, whispering close to Sherlock's ear, "Sherlock, wake up. We're here."

Sherlock groaned in annoyance for being disturbed. He'd done two interviews, a photo-shoot and an entire show. If he didn't get some sleep soon he was going to get grouchy.

"You can go back to sleep in a minute." John promised, shifted them so Sherlock was sitting up.

"M'kay," he yawned, opening his eyes, mentally cursing to himself. He hadn't intended on falling asleep wrapped in John but he was just so comfortable. He blinked a couple times, cussing how his contacts stung the corners of his eyes. He really should have put his glasses back on before leaving. He managed to lift himself off of John and opened the door.

His shoulders slumped as tiredness drew him down. He walked into the hotel, John trailing on along behind him carrying their bags. The hotel was dead besides one poor woman sat behind the reception. It was 2am and John did not envy her job one bit. She was pleasantly chirpy given what time it was. She gave them the room key and bid them a goodnight.

Room 262, John opened the door and his mouth hung open. "Fuck me."

The room had a large king-sized bed, which sat in the corner of the room covered in fuck knows how many pillows. John had never seen a bed so well decorated, it seemed an intrusion to sleep on it. A large window sat on the wall opposite the bed. It was very large, taking up almost the entirety of the wall, overlooking the sleeping city. A chaise longue lay in the centre of the room, accompanied by a coffee table. John found the whole thing ridiculous. They were only in Coventry for the night, it seemed a little excessive…until he realised who he was with.

"Later. I need sleep." Sherlock muttered, with a lazy smirk as he brushed past John and flopping down onto the king sized bed.

John rolled his eyes and entered the room, dropping their bags by the door as he closed it and came into view the room properly. He looked over at Sherlock who was now asleep on top of the covers with his face pressed – not so elegantly – into the pillows. John grinned with amusement at the sight and walked over to the bed to remove Sherlock's shoes and throw the covers over him.

John was about to leave and set up camp on the sofa when a hand came out and squeezed his lightly. John looked down but Sherlock was still asleep, he smiled to himself, running a hand through those gorgeous locks before heading over to the sofa and drifting off into a much needed sleep.

* * *

Sherlock awoke to a pounding headache, he opened his eyes and wincing as the light stung. He groaned when remembered he'd forgotten to take out his contacts…again. He was so tired yesterday, his brain hadn't been functioning properly. He managed to sit up enough to peel his contacts out and place them in their case. He fumbled around on the floor, looking for his bag. His vision blurry but he still managed to locate the front pocket where he'd put his glasses. He was out of the bed and on the floor, lying on his back as he held up his glasses like they were fucking Simba from The Lion King presenting them for all the animals of Africa to see. He hooked the metal frames behind his ears and rested them on his nose. He blinked several times before his vision came back into focus.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes." John's voice, soft and teasing as he looked down at Sherlock lying in a heap on the floor.

Sherlock tilted his head up to see John, "Are you going to help me up or just stare at me all day?"

"I'm content with staring," John smiled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before tugging John down to the floor, catching the other man by surprise. John gasped, landing on top of Sherlock, holding his hands on either side of him just in time to stop himself from crushing Sherlock. Sherlock just smirked.

"Can't we spend one relatively normal morning together?" John chuckled.

"Where's the fun in that?"

John smiled and shook his head. He managed to stand up without Sherlock tackling him or trying to knock him down again. He held a hand out for Sherlock who accepted it wordlessly. John's breath hitched when Sherlock stood up, standing a little closer to John than he'd expected.

"Get on the bed," John ordered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Bossy" he pouted.

"If you're going to be dancing about every day you're going to have to look after your muscles and joints. I don't want you damaging anything. You fell asleep before I could massage you last night. So get on the bed."

"No need to lie, Doctor. I know you just want to touch me." He wiggled his eyebrows and smirked.

John rolled his eyes, "Sherlock, I'm serious."

"So am I," he grinned. They held each other's gaze before Sherlock caved and said, "Yes, okay but I was thinking about going for a run. Can it wait 'til after?"

John nodded, "I'll go check in with Irene at the theatre. Just text me when you're done." He squeezed Sherlock's arm lightly before reaching for his jacket and heading out the door. Sherlock didn't move until he heard the door click shut.

* * *

Sherlock, as expected, was greeted by a couple photographers as he exited the hotel. He did his usual fake smile as he past them setting his pace into a gradual jog as he headed for the park. He would have asked John to join him but he wanted him to be safe. It wouldn't look good for Sherlock to be running with a man who is staying at the same hotel as him. Even if he claimed he was his assistant the press would only turn it. He didn't want that for John. Sherlock was used to it but if he could, he'd like to keep John away from the papers. Keep him all to himself.

He was stretching his legs against a park bench, catching his breath. When a woman approached him. Her hips swaying seductively from side to side in a neat fitting red dress that cut just above her knee. Black heels that Sherlock would recognise anywhere. Four inch steel blades carved into the shape of the heel. He knows this because he had the misfortune of meeting them when he asked said woman to dance. That evening did not bode well with Sherlock at all. His gaze trailed from her shoes up her tiny waist to meet her piecing blue eyes, shielded behind a small black veil hat.

"It's a little early for working the streets, don't you think?" he said dryly, his voice bitter and full of hate.

"Well, you would know," the woman purred, not even offended by Sherlock's comment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, how childish. "What do you want, Anthea?" he asked, already fed up of this conversation.

"He wanted me to wish you good luck," she said, bored of the conversation already. She pulled out her blackberry, and began typing away. Her eyes glued to the screen.

Sherlock froze, eyes widened as he slowly turned to look over at Anthea, towering over her. "Say that again," he dared her.

The woman's attention was brought back to Sherlock, grinning wildly at him. Her eyes hooded and dark. She always did like to see him squirm. "For tonight, he's really looking forward to it."

"That's breaching his contract," Sherlock fumed, absolutely livid by the idea.

"Not if he sits at the back." He could practically hear her grin, smug fuck.

"Goodbye, Anthea." He turned around and began jogging again, wishing he could just run away from his problems like he had just done with her.

* * *

**Really short for which I apologise...thank you to everyone who is reading this. I can't believe people are actually reading this, it's silly. I appreciate it all the same. You're all fantastic. Thanks for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11

John had spent the afternoon sorting out Sherlock's necessities for the evening, working with Irene to sort out the first show 'on the road', as it were. Everything was in place. The lights, stage and sound were all in order. Even Sherlock's costumes had been placed neatly in the small dressing room and ordered in sequence with the songs. Things could not have gone better if they tried. Only problem now was, the star himself. He hadn't heard from Sherlock all day. He checked his phone again, finding a text from the musician.

262, now. - SH

John bit his lip worryingly. Maybe Sherlock had sprained his ankle running. He tried not to think about what had happened as he excused himself from Irene and practically ran back to the room only to find Sherlock face down amongst the pillows. "What-?" John question, throwing a small shrug into the equation.

"My brother is attending tonights performance," Sherlock sighed, his voice muffled in amongst the velvet cushions.

"Ah," John said heavily, watching Sherlock closely. He wasn't sure what the deal was there but he knew it was big. Almost big enough to rattle Sherlock into stage fright. He bit his lip anxiously and shuffled to sit by the side of the bed and run a hand over Sherlock's slightly sweaty back.

"Okay, first things first," he said, logical John to the rescue. "You're going to shower. Eat something, no arguments. Don't even bother," he said quickly as he saw Sherlock tilting his head up to protest. The musician opened and closed his mouth into something of an annoyed pout. "Get dressed, go to the theatre, do the show, come back and ignore your brother."

"John…" Sherlock said uncertainly. Fuck, first time for everything, John thought. He shook his head, giving Sherlock no time to argue. "No. He's a distraction. Something you don't need right now. He can't come near you. He's just trying to mess with you. Don't let him in, Sherlock."

Sherlock was silent for a long time before agreeing to John's terms. "Very well. I need to shower first though." John gave a small nod, as if the musician needed his permission to do so. As Sherlock peeled himself from the bed and padded into the bathroom, John began rifling through Sherlock's case and set out his clothes on the bed.

In doing so, the man found condoms, lube, and a questionable looking Easter egg. When John looked closer he noticed it wasn't a chocolate egg. It was a small egg-shaped wooden box, neatly decorated with gold paint. Carefully opening the curious object, John found a small ballerina doll inside. The figure began to spin as delicate music began to fill the silent room.

If John had been paying attention, he'd realise the room was silent because Sherlock was no longer in the shower. "Are you always this thorough when rifling through people's things?" Sherlock's voice came from just behind John, causing the man to jump and almost drop the tiny music box.

"Jesus-" John gasped, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock in annoyance. "Don't do that."

"Don't touch my things," came Sherlock's cold retort.

John swallowed thickly, looking down at the item in his hand then back up at Sherlock. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. I was just getting your clothes- why do you have this old thing anyway?"

Sherlock scowled, snatching the wooden egg from John and holding it close to his chest. "Believe it or not, it's an ornament of sentimental value," he said briefly, placing the item back in his suitcase.

John looked curiously at Sherlock but didn't say anything. He wondered who had ever managed to get so close as to provide _the _Sherlock Holmes with sentiment. Whoever it was, John was jealous. He wanted to be the one Sherlock remembered with a smile. They'd almost gotten to that stage earlier. John wondered whether they would stay true to their word and see each other after the tour.

"Sherlock…" John began, his tone curious and questioning.

"I hope so," Sherlock interrupted still pacing with just a towel wrapped around his waist.

"You don't even know what I was about to say," John protested, unable to hide the small smile from Sherlock's honest answer.

"You were going to ask about us. It's been on your mind for a while," Sherlock said quickly, sporting his own smile.

John opened his mouth to ask how he knew but closed it again when he realised it didn't matter. It was true, and Sherlock's answer was exactly what he wanted to hear. "I'm sorry about your music box. I didn't mean to-"

"It's quite alright, John," Sherlock assured, cutting him off as he took a step towards the shorter man.

John licked his lower lip absently, looking up at Sherlock as he took a step towards the man until they were both in each other's personal space. Both men's breaths mingled as they drew closer. Neither saying a word. Both nervous and giddy about what might happen if they just closed the gap between their lips.

Sherlock's hand tentatively reached out to stroke John's cheek. His other hand hung limp by his side until John felt confident enough to reach for it and lace their fingers together. This isn't how Sherlock worked. He was doing everything wrong. His work came first but John, he was different. He wanted him to be around to share his work with and if this is what kept him. This confirmation that they could be together, then what was to say Sherlock couldn't indulge himself.

Mere millimetres away from the other's lips and a dull beep rung thrice. Sherlock mentally groaned, taking a step back reluctantly towards his phone. He let go of John's hand, leaving him more frustrated and confused as ever.

Sherlock scowled at his phone. Tonight was not going to pleasant.

Break a leg, Sherly. I'll be watching. - _unknown number_

* * *

**I'm so sorry this is taking so long to write! I know how I want to end it, just can't fathom out how to get there. Ahhh, oh well. Thanks for reading, hope you're still enjoying it :)**


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